for the wicked

defeated by the day, I
crawl into my bed again
seeking solace, knowing none
is to be found. I’m weak
with moral turpitude
and some kind of
virus. are they the
same thing? my bones
ache and my blood throbs
to the rhythms
of avoiding responsibility.

this useless waking period
has sapped my strength
and left me powerless
to resist the siren call
of a sad and guilty sleep.
I’ll rest my weary bones,
but take no joy in it.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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