Faint and Ill

by Intente's Pupil


I had once le choix
and I messed up.
Now I’m paying for it,
so be kind to me.

Listen carefully. C’est moi,
worst consigliere in town
for these matters.
Capable of ill advice,
the most pungent reproach.
Anxiety trigger,
an urgent voice.
An impulsive kludge,
your soreness-killer.

Listen! C’est encore moi,
the crave, the yearning,
a decelerated fading
of dyed-in-the-wool proponents,
long lost on the way,
now limited to yourself,
the last bastion of faith
and hope.

Écouter! I’m still here.
Forget those frowns of contrition.
It’s always the last time,
you know? A pause from this itch
in the body, extended to every inch.
A lapse to facilitate recovery.

Bon voyage to the needle ease.
A whimsical sail, a psychedelic dream.
A frozen back in a forward bending.
Uttanasana, yogi of greatest prowess.
Sink to the Earth, the deepest darkness.

Et tout s’est terminée par un souspir.

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