What do theologians call a life without events?
The lights of my prison-like room dawn before sun's first blush.
I open sand-papery eyes as my AI announces the morning.
I begin the puppetry of morning routines:
I study my pale inmate face as I polish the porcelain.
I look less of a drowsy-angel than a zombie as I splash cold water
on the face with an almost determined lack of expression.
I’m absorbed in an ocean of predawn cold
as I 5-mile-walk away my sleepiness - this small freedom
- keeps me fit and acceptably sane.
Later, bathed in hot indifference,
and clothed in exhausting obligations,
I dine, at my reserved table, with my gang of irritations.
Soon I’m ready for another taxing day
of waiting for the disease to run its course.
Copyright © Anais vionet | Year Posted 2021
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