Indolent

Waking up when the sun grows weary  
Rays, wide and scanty, thin and lanky.  
Screaming death, the day slips away  
Unable to retort, my breakfast doth decay.  
Example number 1, not so convincing.  
Could happen to anyone, could be anything.  
The legs laze to move, stretching slow and shaky  
The vigourless mind grinds to a halt, indecisive and flaky.  
Muscle fibers well oiled, physical strength inbred.  
Can’t lift my lethargic ass, to take a piss, off this bed.  
 
She… They… It… all lie in wait.  
That… Those… This… can forgive my mental state  
Or maybe not. Forgiveness, too, can wait.  
When the world ends in a catastrophic slump  
I’ll wait by the window watching this world-sized dump  
Limp away into wasted time, dragging what ever is left, of mine, along.  
It’s meaningless to act, even more futile to exert effort  
What holocaust can any of these attempts avert?  
The destruction has been on going since the seed slipped in.  
Since living became sin. Since death became a ‘win.’  
I could stare into space for hours without disgrace.  
Nothing to answer to, nothing to face, no one can replace  
This void of nothing that needs nothing, wants nothing, is nothing.  
Just a speck of dust in an ordinary place, indifferent in existence.  
 
Down in some philosophical hell, a throne of satin and silk  
Velvet and lace, turns into a bed for a king of taste.  
A taste of the pleasure of timeless motion.  
Forever in limbo, a pleasant disposition.  
Embodying sloth, a comfortable imposition.  
 
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Picture Credits: Steven Burkett (https://fineartamerica.com/featured/sloth-steven-burkett.html)