Sloth

A poem

I come home from a long day

And plummet into the depths of my couch.

I feel my hand raise unwillingly over my face,

As a bright light illuminates in front of me.

I lay there, still and sober,

And scan over the books I once loved.

Those books I once scoured through for hours,

Now collecting dust, forgotten and alone.

Books of heroic warriors and fierce beasts,

Of wise old sages and young fools looking for truth,

Of joy and sorrow,

Ecstasy and pain,

Life and death.

Now these books sit,

No longer riveting tales,

But reduced to paper decorations.

I squint my eyes,

Pondering whether I should get up

And chase that which I forgot

And that which I never knew.

I look, guilty and bitter

But I remain in place,

And turn back forward,

To that ominous light above my face.