You are sleep rotten,
ached all over.
Lousy and bed-ridden;
you can’t stretch yourself free
of the shrouds that they have laid over your bed.
You are morning hungry – drenched in thirst.
Your legs reach to your toes
your arms reach.
You are blind;
fighting the gauze wound round your limbs.
Your movements are delayed.
Your reactions to street sounds are dulled.
There is a mist hanging
on the beams of dawn through your curtains;
there is a fly buzzing,
beating its brains out on the pane.
Your wrist forms a fist out of your hand.
But you are too lazy,
you raise it in vain.
The white lace a lattice of bandages
you are mummified.
Even your thoughts are muffled.
Your brain can’t quite hear them.
You push your heels away from your body
you grow to your full length
then curl.
thelibraryrooms 