14 September 2021
Make Your Bed
“Make your bed,” the doctor said,
“the surest way to right your head.”
And so, desperately, I do.
But as my head
asks more instead,
the act feels rather moot.
Bare feet fall through empty halls
in which vast silence echoes.
And though loneliness lurks among these walls,
solitude dictates each day’s tempo.
For why fill space with soul or voice
discordant with my own?
Rather curl in soft white down
and in unconscious drown.
Obligations ponder heavy,
impossible to undertake.
And as unproductive days fly by
the mind cries, “Is it selfish I’m a flake?”
Even our fair Buddha says
to relish beauty every day…
but when sun passes in a haze,
who sees splendor straight?
What am I waiting for?
Where is the guiding star?
Perhaps I wallow.
Perhaps I overthink.
Perhaps I could
recalibrate my mind
to be more shallow
and not allow such dwelling
in that deep dark hollow.
Perhaps it is all in my control.
Perhaps I need a drink.