On pillows I lay,
Listening to the bouncing drops of rain,
The music governing my day.
I’m trapped
And forced to listen to the busy, rapid voice.
It bellows and directs and it haphazard in its soldierly intonation
Its contents give no inspiration.
This pillows, the feathered thoughts and ideas squashed.
If only I could lift and let them raise into flight,
If only I could lift the blanket that weighs tons,
If only I could climb the mountainous folds of my bed,
Occasionally, I open one of my eyes,
Uneager to look at the clock,
I listen for steps and I know
That there isn’t anybody in the house
Or that there hasn’t been