Curled into the laziness of a locked day
my worries unfurl like a fern
buried in the winter of the couch.

I am a bulb of an ancient flower
wondering if I will ever bloom again.

The memory of my life before
is a cushion of wool and longing.

Time tastes like pipe smoke and wine
space glooms in slow iridescence.

In the distance
the redundant voices of the radio
discuss the composition
of the next social pastiche.

I used to be a human
now I am a cage full of colors.

November 3^rd, 2020