Smaller Joys and Pleasures Are Not Sought
How like a prison is my once loved home
Since now I linger here in fevered chills.
No more may I be free to walk and roam
Nor climb the mountains and the hills.
The television irks me and annoys
I cannot bear the sound of human voice.
My lost intelligence is not deployed
I err in thinking I have little choice.
And so it is myself whom I destroy.
What path to take when feeling lost and ill,
When lying in my bed I cannot rest.
What act would give me strength and better will?
What purpose has this illness and its test?
The road to hell is paved with too much thought
So smaller joys and pleasures are not sought
S
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