Comfort is a sin

And in these comfortable clothes I lie.
And enclose myself in my bedroom.
The milk of my thoughts were that of my own lust.
Lusting at the idea of my own death.
A cancer that would spur me into brief action.
Once, twice and a third- truly.
To be given a countdown of time.
Told like Niggle of a specific time to journey.

And so I spent the day in my room.
So, so much to do.
Read and write and read again.
Breakdown, comprehend.

Yesterday eve I found twenty dollars.
Today a ran briefly and bought some goods to make fully my belly.
Wine for the nights of expectant company.
Beer for three were owing, to Law.

Plans and thoughts of travel.
A lethargy of skin and mind.
Exhaustion, flatness.
Limbs flaccid and weak.

The tragedy of King Lear,
The mindlessness, onset within familial bounds.
And torch bearers bring burning-
to bodies piled for pyre.

And peer not.
for your eyes b’gouged.
Felt raged cold grow hot.
in my horizon lounged.

There were other things I wished to speak but my mind fickle and forgetful, lapses.
I cleaned my room.
I bathed.
I showered.
I ran.
Ate, moldy pasta sauce.
Spelling is giving me real grief at the moment.
I’m all out of sorts.
Famished and ravenous

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