London Poem: Day 218

23 March

Sleep in fine, but what comes of the
Times lost in resting bodies?
A push between the two forgets the world,
Already forgotten by most.
I am home, ill and uncertain.
Anxieties filter like thin fingers
Through cloudy puddles,
But that doesn’t mean anything,
Just an attempt at insight
While death seems to linger nearer.
Time lost in rest will be nothing
Compared to the hours passed after passing.
I’ve had enough, let sleep take me,
Forego time and wake me when all is over.

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