Cultured Inertia
To be uncomfortable
The bed beckons
our clothes hug,
the loser’s lesson lost
to grinning mugs.
Lectures fall neutral
for all to relish —
gobbled as brutal
embellished angelics.
Beseeching dirty hands
paused minds, distilled thoughts,
friends of action weaving
words, connecting dots.
Comfort dazes
enervating spry masses,
rendering projects
hesitant and impassive.
So where do sloths look
when even comfort becomes too little,
when all the world was there for them
but now their crystal castles fizzle.
To further comfort!
for times are trying and oppress,
they say, the world’s against me
and I can make no more progress!
To scriptures I look
for fate is in the hands of another,
for all of life I can’t control
as Zeus commands the sound of thunder.
And so this sloth who threw
their hands up in tholing gloom,
sits beneath the sound of rain
accepting the thunder as their doom.
