Weary

Of most things, I believe
no strength, inertia is great
Momentum of an endless
lack of movement
Dragging things
on and down with me
through the windows, the doors
the tables and chairs
the tiny cracks in the woodwork
where deep within my conscience
sleeps
weary of world and sin.

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I wouldn't call this much of a poem, twas something I mashed together in less than a minute.

More of a (somewhat) literary rant, I suppose.