LXVI: My squire to me, the ruler of a ghost

The cushions are insulting me, milord.

They seem to say there's nothing there for me.

Their upturned corners say but not a word,

but I can tell they scorn at what they see.

The blankets clearly wish another there--

one with a story stowed to swathe inside.

But my day's story's desolate and bare,

no tales of glory do my mem'ries hide.

The pillows retch at what they have to hear:

the woes I've seen throughout this wretched day.

But so's their lot to bear my ills, I fear.

To cradle all my failures. They obey.

To bed! To bed? I lay and write instead.

Now dim the dread that lives here in my head.