I Am Sick When.
I look on thee,
or I look not
on thee, these three
to five days
suffer me to droop.
Hard to greet
this idling week,
no friends to speak,
to or of, so
don’t talk to me
about love.
I chose to stoop,
admit defeat,
now I am replete
with seasoned nose
ears and throat,
a mind that floats,
eyes that stream,
bereft of dream,
and toss upon
these sticky pillows.
Envy the willow's
bent backed leaves
like cool fingers,
in rivers play,
warm breeze strays
and blows away
the detritus of
such dying days.
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