Lemon Compress On

One day
I wish to wake up without a sore throat
What is this viciousness?
Why won't it go away?!
Seven days to no avail!
It started just a mindless itch of pain.
Now it's fine print under a loop - within my brain.
I'm rotting though I feel fueled by youth
Just waiting to get out. To do! And move!
And I do too - every day.
A balance between "take it cool" and "move". Go away!
I balance my weight. I wait.
A highway seems to take shape outside my gate.
Cars blaze past and I've been led astray
From the limited-life-to-live every day.
To my bed. My head filled with... nothing.
Not yet. Not this early in summer.
I'd rather be out instead!

Life never moves like you'd wish it.
My fists itch. My ribs pitched beneath a thick inch of fat.
If I was out I'd carve away at that.
Yet what seems in store is no more.
It's out of stock, out of order. I'm out in Mordor.
Morbid horrors await beneath the hall floor.
All live, and all fall...

I'd rather live now, than just stall all-day.
This appauling haul of stalling, sleeping - all morning.
An endless quest for rest and yet I feel...
Maybe some work could make me heal.

I'm truant. Never saw work with so much appeal.
As this Sunday. One day to rest. Monday the next.
Mundane is this test. I'll be, waiting patiently, for the field, this dawn...
With my lemon compress on.