There’s a vague sense of longing
that provokes the heartstrings
of the soul, in an unexplainable combination
of warmth and bitterness. It begs for a name,
but no word has found a way
to render it.

I mutter the crude anthem
of a perpetual Lazy Sunday,
banking on the anticipated
accomplishments, that dissolve
in laziness, by the light
of Monday morning.

I tried to speak of society
(but my words of the world
have rendered themselves redundant)
I tried to speak of love,
but my body has grown stiff
and numb to any attempt
of endearing touch
(my heart much the same…)
And I’ve long and regretfully acknowledged
that I’ve been put at a distance from the world.

There’s a strange sense of longing,
tingling in my unconscious soul,
emerging, coated in dusty residue
from its time incarcerated in storage.
It beckons me to feel the provoking tingle
of the fresh and bitter morning air,
and all I can do is stare out the window...