London Poem: Day 103

28 November

When nothing becomes work, what
Then does work become?
Half way there,
And still no answers,
Which is just as well,
That would only prompt further
Research. To spin endlessly
Into oblivion there is always
A search for words, and
Heavy silence between.
I’m working at it is
All that can be said.
There is more rain to fill the
Moments of silence,
But the endless repetitive sounds
Seem to fade as they never
Cease. Maybe it is mere custom
That blends it all together.

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