Rubbish Made of Gold

I can not work. I can not sleep. I can not play or read.
A weight is clinging to my throat, and somewhere I do bleed.
My blood is thick. My flesh is raw. My eyes are blind and dry.
A weariness has taken me and tossed me to the sky.
Heavenward I tumble. Hellward now I fall.
Thrown about by thunder. A gale to a rag doll.

I will not move. I will not rise. I will not dance or sing.
I can not even from this bed begin to take my wing.
I lay here still. I lay here yet. I lay and am unmoved.
I will not ever rise again until I am improved.
Skyward am I tossed. Earthward I am pulled.
Lit up by this lightning, like rubbish made of gold.

I have no peace. I have no grace. I have and have no fill.
This jewelry should adorn me so; instead I’m soaked in swill.
These rusted bits. This shattered gem. These flakes of gold of fools.
This pile, garbage, worthless junk, comprised of broken tools.
Air around me rushes. Earth evades my touch.
Pelted by these rain clouds I suffer nothing much.

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