haplessly daunted
by fear, beleaguering,
leaving me in
a narcoleptic daze.
I write, uninspired
my wanderlust obscured,
with xanthous sickness
as my only candour.
pain, gargantuan
remaining, in kinetic time
fastidious upon my chest
hurting,
like a iconoclastic yegg,
stealing my dreams,
jettisoning them
unto itself.
some days, relief
abstains from me;
others, sanity
comforts magnanimously
as if laissez-faire,
recovery comes and goes -
awakens in pandiculation,
or zealously absent.
I yearn for an eclectic
source of my verse,
but sorrow remains
my sole inspiration.
