How obviously contrived.

In the same viscous soup of empty inspiration,
I scratch the same page with the same shards
of the same inflated light bulb,
charged by the same
of an intellectual fool.

Yet the unfamiliar hallways foster vapid contemplation
and we turn the same outmoded cogs with bland
articulation, as I wonder if the chains
are not my brain
but the same

So from the same viscous soup of flitting motivation,
the same incessant buzz of the same unfeeling vain
smothers concentration with indolent disdain.
And the same defeated voices enlace my languid brain.

Like Clouds, this is far from how I had hoped my initial concept would be realised, but since it seems unlikely to be sufficiently improved in the far future, here it is in all its flawed un-beauty.

Photograph by Christy Lau.