Thursday, 22 January 2015

All my friends died in Lassiter's fire

The muscles can't be bothered any more, and the breath can scarcely bother to draw.
A pain sunk in and made its home, for months and years around my bones.
My eyelids sink and draw to close, desperate for their long repose.

*

Weariness is wrapped around my ribcage.
Weariness has made myself its home.
Weariness sloughs off all my optimism.
Weariness is talking on the telephone.

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