Dark Progression

Saturday afternoon and
boredom has me firmly
in it's iron grip

and the clock is my enemy
ticking away minutes that
seem like days, even years

as I sit and stare, and
now that is tedious, and it
covers me like a death shroud

in this tomb of nothing-to-do
where shadows are cast but
you can't tell where from

and the air in this tomb
is stale, hardly breathable,
ten-thousand years old

and I struggle to hang on
and nothing seems to help
and the tedium drags on,

boredom giving way to
a darker kind of mood,
but one I know well--

A darkening progression,
dredging up thoughts that are
best left in their graves,

unmarked so no one can
find them except for me,
I always manage.

In boredom's iron grip
I find companionship
with resurrected memories
and the specters of the past.