Recounting, accounting
The past few days
Puts an ache in my gut,
Perspiration on my skin,
And a tear near my well.
Home, pseudo-home,
Place where my worldly belongings
Gather dust,
You're not even as
Comforting as you
Want to be.
A culmination
Has brought me to this moment,
Rife with pain and suffering.
As I drift in
And out,
I long for comfort
Without end,
Filled with the complacency
I detest.
Only one action
Will fulfill,
Will soothe my discomfort:
The rhythm
Of a dirge,
Of spaded dirt
Spilt on rosewood.
Although some sleep
May suffice,
For truest release
Make mine eternal.

rjw, 7/12/87

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