Burying my head deep in the sand,
I couldn't fly anyway:
My wings were clipped long ago.
Retreating mollusc-like,
Sealing the entrance and also the exit
With air-tight excuses.
Congealing and curdling in self-pity,
Stagnating in routine,
Settling gracefully in the clinging slime.
Screaming to myself
To drown the sound of life rushing past,
Just in case I remember,
Entanging my will in gossamer webs,
Struggling half-heartedly,
Deadening reactions until comfortable.

The world turns on,
But I stand in my self-imposed vacuum:
I'll catch the next revolution.