Sunday, January 21, 2007
Not a cliche I hope.
Darkness permeates.
It touches my feet,
Cold with morning.
Spread legged at a machine,
Sore eyes
And greasy skin.
Sickness
Winds around
The desk wheels.
Up my legs
And down my arms.
Body tired,
With a lump
Of darkness.
It remembers nausea
And discomfort
And emotions of dreams.
A dead past
Is searched for explanation.
¶ 10:04 pm
It touches my feet,
Cold with morning.
Spread legged at a machine,
Sore eyes
And greasy skin.
Sickness
Winds around
The desk wheels.
Up my legs
And down my arms.
Body tired,
With a lump
Of darkness.
It remembers nausea
And discomfort
And emotions of dreams.
A dead past
Is searched for explanation.
¶ 10:04 pm
