When boredom strikes a quiet man,
He's left to sit and ponder,
On curious mysteries,
Small and grand,
Of life and endless wander.

The smallest step first taken young,
Has led him now to this,
Few memories left,
They all have run,
And now are sorely missed.

He ponders silent the quiet nights,
He spent so freely doing nothing,
Recalling then,
With small delight,
How often he'd been bluffing.

Saying things akin to lies like,
"Soon I'll speak my mind,
I'll leave this place,
And cut all ties,
I'll leave it all behind."

Yet in his mind,
He knew the truth,
Buried far beneath,
He made the lies for simple use,
To keep him on his feet.

For when boredom strikes a quiet man,
He's left alone with thoughts,
Of endless time,
Which life demands,
And how quickly time is lost.

He thinks of things,
Like yesterday,
And how happy he was when,
To ease the fear and pain away,
Of facing there and then.

And soon he finds all time is up,
As marked by shades of grey,
He ponders then,
Too late it seems,
Of what to do today.