Blandness of the Walking Stick

Redundancy is a part of life,

Without there’d be no commonplace,

No old hats or uncanny spice,

Life would compose itself

With brushstrokes of different paint

Each day a new palette for ourselves to face,

Passion grows stale just like actions do,

A fever runs and the cloth cools the skin

Afterwards you cautiously retrace your

Steps to avoid anything you could have done,

And thus any excitement you may have felt

Had become flavored with a form of allergic tongue,

Routines and cycles,

Ruts and quicksand,

We face these villains every day,

From clichés to clichés we like,

But have been told to hide

Any invitation to such thoughts away,

To be awake yet pretend not to see

To convince interest when you must pinch

Yourself not to sleep,

If only we were honest,

With each other, with ourselves, perhaps then  acrid odors we could dispell