Call It (Poem 363)

Call it what you will, 

when tiredness sinks 

like syrup in your veins, 

turning your body to lead, 

thoughts growing heavy 

in your head, flowing 

like molasses through 

the channels of your brain,

feverish and dull, the trick 

is to find new dreams to dream, 

new thoughts to think, to fight

boredom, and stand up against 

the tyranny of despair. 

Call it what you will, this 

invisible illness bringing 

into question your every inaction, 

opening the doors of judgment 

among the more critical factions 

inhabiting your life, setting up 

housekeeping in your brain, 

changing the ever-changing life 

you hoped you'd have, the trick 

is to find a likely nook, build a nest, 

and crawl in for a few hours 

(or days) of rest, come what may,

to turn away from the less than 

understanding, and to be willing 

to embrace the mystery of it all, 

the unnamed maw drawing you 

closer each day, and the way 

the sun shines through 

your curtains in the morning. 

Call it what you will, if you listen 

you will hear a warning, 

whispered or shouted: 

Heed me; 

slow down; 

be more selfish; and 

honor the luminous light 

glazing the shimmering, 

glassine surfaces of 

the sacred temple 

that is you. This, 

call it what you will, is 

the trick, the secret, the answer 

to every question ever asked.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six