A man who gets accustomed to his sickness
sorrow becomes his nicotine stick
as long as the air brings him oxygen
as long as the pipes carry water
as long as the bulbs defeat the pitch black
as long as the pilot light is not dead
to stream life to his burners

he would rather hide uncompromised
to disintegrate and rot in a cell of bleak mood
desensitized from such solitude
adopted to share his round table
sips from the same tea cup
like a long, long time tenant
like any bad habit, it's a love and hate affair

no hypnosis can persuade this stagnancy
but a genocide of his survival kits
like a razing fire ravaging his house
to the ground, pulverizing every inch of
his dismal comfort corners to a coal

absolutely barren
with only his emotional baggage left
he will relearn how to walk
to see how the daffodils sprawl at the hillside
to watch their chimney smokes disappear
for there would be no door to keep him in