Ceiling FanMature

I sit on my bed.
I am relaxed.

Music plays,
I cannot tell if it is real,
Or made by my mind.

I glance up and watch the ceiling fan
As it rotates and rocks forever,

And I wonder,
"What is forever?"

Wind from the fan washes over me
And I sigh, competing with its' gust.

There isn't much more to life
Than a ceiling fan, at 5:12 AM,
In June. 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed