season does it even matter

Quarter Past Four


Repulsed by the putrid flavor of time wasted
He droops in bed, lashes glued on his lids
Cocooned by the sheets
Mastering the futile art of tossing and turning
Twisting to find the perfect mould
Time is the universal currency
It is dripping away
His mind racing around the web of his thoughts
His biology ceasing to be in accord with his will
The chronic disorder dulls his skin
Swells his eyes, dulls tomorrow
The sun spills on the corner of his bed
He rises because sleep fails again