Iron

Sunday did not pan out, an iron faith faltered; events planned wandered off like drunken sheep. It was the Advil, it was the insomnia, it was not enough iron in my soul. Speaking of which, my stools are obsidian artifacts; a consequence of iron therapy. The day got no better, the drunk sheep returned all at once, tin replaced iron, anemic confusions swirled my spirit grew pale. Within me body bugs binged on iron while the blood dieted. Sunday smelts to Monday a peaceful time, my inner ghost is recovering, sheep are grazing. I suck upon nuts and bolts make plans, iron-out future road bumps.