Bed.

I look at my muscles. They seem smaller. Weaker. I do seem weaker.
I breathe dust. That is why my lungs collapse, nearly explode, such is the feeling, the sensation of pain and the effort to describe it by relating it to some phenomena that most people should associate with great power, magnitude. I'm hyperbolating. I'm breathing dust. This room must be in its very original state of being. No one to the extend of my knowledge has ever cleaned here.
Dirt occupies the floor. Sincerely, it has not belonged to me in a long while. If the whole existence came to a question of belonging, there would be no bottom for the argument. No reason. The whole argument turns hollow.

The dessert was malicious, my dear.

Mindful of sand

a fingerprint scanned

never for the damned

and no blessed are in sight

Schism or a fight

need to adjust the light

someone just might have a slight

breeze of delight

And not until the clouds are

machine made can a single tree

set on a crusade

So loose-legged

the armed men stand

in surprise I despise

how they hold onto their land

on the chest

a heart distressed

when the rest

eventually laid to rest

And not until the clouds are

machine made can a single tree

set on a crusade