Given my misanthropic ways & my circumscribed days…being sickly hasn’t really been that bad.
The only times I’m lonely & my soul weeps for escape…are the times I look back regretfully at my hale & hearty days.
Moving on is an illusion; it’s carrying on but it’s carrying weight…I sit dazzled at those that are able at all to still perambulate.
On these “soul weepy” days & I feel the bars of my cage…I’m a fucking coward for still hanging around.
When the floor show is over & you can no longer dance…one should know it’s past time to exit the stage.
But then a bird sings & I look through the glass at my side…that free flitting chanteuse becomes my flame’s point of pride.