Nothing I feel passionate about:
Cold showers against my inclination to warmth and comfort;
Summer on my mind, while the external is below freezing;
Chairs too unsettling. The bed cascades into perdition: Desolation, dejection, its fuel.
Whining is off the table; only wine diminishes the diner’s useless parable.
Hidden notes located, out of date, in the pantry – forgotten.
Ideas from the past, images no-longer relatable; the glow’s sheen etiolated: dead inside.
You caress the notion ‘passion’, finding warmth and comfort.
But all is ominous; news troubling; friends obscured.
Then love arrives, perhaps to kill you again: A death worth finding.
Yet the prospect does not hurt – because all passion is ad nauseum henceforth.
Go back to bed, the chair is uncomfortable; wassail with wine, drench the thoughts in chemicals… re-furbish your pantry: You are dead inside.