Monotony

I really like the imagery in this poem, even if it is pretty sad.

Clean Break

Making your rounds, a new morning

Stirs, a honeycomb adorning

The stark silhouette of tree-tops,

A chrysalis of stars that drops

Its dark shell into the coffee pot.

Stiff smelling, out to local shops

You go, the old familiar stops;

Inside a mug some flowers rot,

Making your rounds.

Down the fridge, petals mourning,

Falling past son’s art: a warning,

Scraping the sinews.  The soiled mops

You use that act as callous props

Caught in a stale, old-fashioned plot,

Making your rounds.