My Bed is the buffeted coast of human civilisation.
I spend the day talking and reading
Of great matters of state;
And at night I lie in wait
For the changes which are needling
At my fate.
Helpless, we tumble ever ahead,
Regress and progress entwined-
The onwards march thus defined
As that which will come instead
Of these times.
“Lay back on your mattress,
Know that you are sad
because of that poison fad
of thinking you are more than a witness
to the advancement of the madâ€
Thus speak the voices of resignation.
That I should want to escape
The rip-tides which erode the cape
Of my designation,
Seems like a final mistake.
For, under my blanket tautology:
“I am all that I amâ€,
Change is a scam
Which is the epitome
of hubris.
So, when we are confined to bed,
Or when we stand
gazing at the storm above the headland,
All we can do to escape
The horror of an imagined fate
Is get up, or walk away from the shore,
pretending that what we have seen is not there.
