Pen to paper, the ink soaks. Dead.
Scratching assaults the ears; curse their successes,
To the back of the mind a lone idea regresses.
Assessment. Assessing? My political skills?
A half-formed venting, though calms.
I shift in my chair.
Every detail grotesque, I shift my attention
To the blank face of my enemy and my saviour.
It must have been ten minutes. Twenty? No, two.
Dragging and dragging, yet engraining in my mind.
My kingdom for distraction.
I push back my chair, and sleep.