Stuck on Repeat

The car horn bleats like a metronome's thud,

I sit with my coffee, the taste turns to mud.

It’s Tuesday again, the clock hits the same,

as if I’m rehearsing this dull, dreary game.

Walls stretch around me, whispers of yore,

I feel the déjà vu creep through the door.

Time holds me hostage, I spin in its loop,

like an actor misplaced in a long, lonely troupe.

The cracked window breathes in a breeze full of song,

carrying snippets of what feels so wrong.

I shiver at morning’s reflection in time,

wondering how I’m wrapped up in this rhyme.