his cologne is called ennui

he’s made a career of indecision
his house built on soft middle ground
surrounded by a fence for him to sit upon
the posts rounded
for easy insertion up his ass

and i could have forgiven him
for his wishy washy ways

his cologne is called ennui

but there’s a point where the easy-going
slip into a coma and die from
an overdose of vanilla

what i couldn’t ignore
is the way he imposed inauthentic themes
on his poorly considered poetry

has a bride ever yawned at the altar?

we should enslave the boring