Look How You’ve Made Your Bed

Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash

Oh, look how you’ve made your bed,

Woven a quilt of disdainful dread,

How your candied words of affection

Were tart, the epitome of imperfection.

And as you lie there gasping for air,

Your eyes lock with death’s dark grim stare.

You regret every misstep, mistake, misanthropic aggression,

Pleading to God in one last confession,

Accepting absolute responsibility,

Donning utter humility,

For a second chance to make your bed

And weave your quilt with more faithful thread.

But it is for naught; your rope is taught.

Your body will hang, spat on in disdain.

And the reason given for your body’s decay,

To you, the hangman will say,

“The crows are hungry and need to be fed

And my oh my, look how you’ve made your bed…”