Too Pressed Bed

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The Bed has attained my shape,

and gained her own mortality.

She has earned her own muffled pleas

for my return to reality.

No longer can the Bed sleep

to escape my insanity,

because I weigh her down,

with the rest of humanity.

The Bed turns cold

because its warmth is worn on me.

Her sinews strained,

from my selfish immobility.

Her laments drowned out

by cowardly cheers,

chanting,

“I’ll surely make this my year”.

 

Even the bed tires of my company.