Day twenty seven of NaPoWriMo. Today’s prompt is to write a poem with long lines. Each line is to have seventeen syllables. This is an instance from today.
A gust of hot air, kept blowing across my face, my trip to the bank.
The most boring place, with plenty of processes, no one seems to know.
Reading notices, going from counter to counter, searching for answers.
Grave bunch of faces, infested with paperwork, doesn’t set a mood.
Cubicles, counters, joined seamlessly makes the beast, called a retail bank.
Despite few changes, through web, phones and ATMs, banking stays painful.
For once in a while, a trip to the bank just seems, quite inevitable.
The once is enough, it takes its toll on your mind, reinstating hatred.