Enveloped

Too often did I have to shut myself in
To keep the cold out, my surroundings en
tailing taller and taller turrets of clothes and
Bills and books and excuses. Every sort of sin,
Piled up, weighing down on a flattened me akin
To this crumpled, wrinkled sheet in your hand,
Till all the reasons to ever spring out again
From within this rotten skin
Congeal at the back of the mind,
And I turn my back to the world,
To plunge into the comfort of sleep.

Drawing by Mark Powell