There’s a sweet spot between boredom and rest
wherein dreams are dreamt and thought and undreamed
in a trip to the freezer double-teamed
by hope and by fear, or sorrow and jest:
When the only burden is skin itself,
that protective organ which bleeds when pricked
and sweats when hot, tasting salty when licked
and cries when enchained, or needled, or kicked:
The fear of such death, like the end of dream,
lurks deep in the conscious so hard to find;
it’s the reason I flail outside my mind
clinging to the bank of a shallow stream:
That’s the spot, alright: wet, knee-deep and warm
Too lazy to die, too bored to perform.

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