In the morning the sheets fall off the bed
Soft and formless and extending off in odd directions.
The skin is warm, it's beginning to dissolve
As it gathers points of moisture
Around its gaping holes.
The feet remain attached somewhere off in space
At least a hundred yards away
Sensing yet devoid of feeling.
Three dimensions compressing into two
Someday a good mechanic might repair this rusty arm.
Writer(s): Samuel Coomes
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