In a decade, or two,
I’ll coerce my eyes open,
When the alarms have screeched for hours
And the sun’s scorching my bed.

I’ll curse and tumble down,
Hurdle to the door,
Kicking aside dirty laundry,
Hopping across last night’s dishes.

Piles and piles of books,
That I once wished to read
And threads and shreds of life
That I once wished to live;

Would be scattered in every corner
Covered in mounds of dust,
Plundered by worms and lice,
Exhausted of waiting.

Somewhere outside the four walls,
Life must have tried to peep in
Through the blinded windows
And the bolted door.

I’d unbolt the twenty locks
Open the door just ajar
And squeeze my head through
Just a tad bit.

I’d stare at the outside,
Squinting my eyes at the light.
I’d stand there a moment,
To see if you were there,

Standing by my door,
Waiting for me, at last.

When I see the doorstep’s empty,
I’d crawl back inside.
Tumbling upon dishes and laundry,
Kicking away piles of books

And the shreds of life, left.
Collapse on my unmade bed.
Curl back into a fetal,
Covered in thick blankets,

And await the next day.
And the next.



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