I’m on the regime, took
two antifungals last thing
before going to sleep.

I was awakened by the
committee in my head,

A trial of contrition and
half finished confessions.

I accused myself but there
was nobody to defend me.

I was delusional, the clock
sounded like a metronome

with the measured beat of
a pendulum resembling

scythe strokes of the grim
reaper.

I heard the belfry reminding
people to keep on counting

I heard the salt truck go
by, the dome hazard light

would have been rotating
warnings in semaphore.

I heard the rooster, no doubt
it must have been dawn,

I dared not open my eyelids,
they were Thames Barriers

holding back deluged tears
that I cried in the night.

I didn’t want to see the day,
and I used to be a lively lad,

but now I fear that I’m in a
state of perpetual photophobia.

I’m in the dark, am I some sort of
a mushroom, a Shitake perhaps?