The Sin of Staying #49

With the body laying low,
and the mind, little toes froze
from lack of bloodflow, every
thought spent on not destroying
what little time, what great toys
we randomly find. Fingers
chattering away for keeps.

Sleep says we are mistresses,
and she will find us at her
choosing, her hands on our back,
bent in a great arch, massage
welling up our fear and hate,
the slowing succumbing mind
battered and bruised from lying.

Her kisses do not heal,
but prolong the kind of long
suffering, the losing called
up by our unending march,
our constant telling of long
and dumb lies, poorly designed
spun news, bad mythology.

This is what steals your skin,
what knots up in your stomach,
stuffs up your lungs, sinuses,
what sends you to the doctor
for pills, to Priests insistent
on the on power of more prayer
to salve the deepening bruise.

But the answer lies within,
too simple to spot poking
and prodding, stung with needles,
hooked up to machines meant to
illuminate your ills, when
their motors run too loud, deaf
to your remaining beatings.

With the old hands growing gaunt
and the pimples too spotty
since your lover hung it up,
spooked by the voices calling
you to sing over your will,
we cling to proud memories,
pictures kept forevermore.

The band on our finger turns green
and the swing from cold to hot
cinches that we’ve lost what bit
of choice, homeostasis,
what trinkets you bring along,
poems to write, songs to sing,
as you reach your final snore.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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