Decay

Day after day, side by side

we vegetate on the bed.

The slow-grinding cogs

of the dim, rotting mill

yield no butterflies,

open no new skies

to fly

Eyes grow dull with rheum

Souls stick with the glue,

the sap of lacerated bodies;

only nails grow sharper,

like ill-smelling towels that nauseate

a freshly washed face.

No thought, no effort

only being "yourself"

And what is "yourself"--"you"?

An obscure potato behind

a tower of old books and philosophies.