Languid, my arm flops and hangs from the mattress,
I am but a mere weakened being
suffering my body’s wretched heat.
My toes wriggle, it’s the most exercise
I’m able to perform,
I am exhausted, and I’ve barely woken up.
What is this ill health surrounding my body?
a yellowing at the edges of an ancient book,
curling me into an apostrophe,
into bedlam my innards are rearranging,
my health it needs cleansing.
I sleep for hours at a time,
on and off,
the clock ticks with a decisive inertia
I cough and cough,
but my lungs are still bloated and unclean.
The pages turn into smithereens
which I am made to breathe,
the tainted yet immediately literary air
is now within my airways
and is exploring my bloodstream.
I smile to myself,
languid though I am,
I reach for pen and paper
scrawl for hours –
the ink is dragged along the modern parchment
by my excitable left hand.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.
Photo by twinsfisch on Unsplash
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