I have atrophied in these sheets.
They cling to me,
sweat gathers in sickness
and in health I know nothing but want.
Yet, need lingers in the door
beckons, but does not come forth.
My dreams run rampant like pixies;
they are splashes of imaginary colour ,
no paper can hold them.
Outside the barren tree branches lacked the strength
to hold onto their colourful autumn,
I lack the strength (will) to even manifest a fall,
So, I’ve fallen into a bed of leaves
(which I did not rake)
Please. Decompose this body,
feed the corpse to the worms-
this is the only way I know to celebrate a harvest.