Rest, not rust, dear Ulysses

In an attempt to find stillness in me

I reduced actions to bare minimum

realizing immediately how a huge fatigue

decided to settle upon me

perhaps years of action upon on action

had accumulated in me the need for inertia

the state of rest

when the feet clamped down to some imaginary rod

felt leaden and fought with a mind that actively plotted actions

when hands tied down by a huge need for silence

refused to budge when the brain screamed, act, move, act

I lay down feeling for the first time in years

the feel of my body against the bed in rest

and conniving with the mosquito who brought me a fever called dengue

I lay travelling back in time on my bed

and wondered when the time had rushed so fast as to push me this far

but to rest, dear Ulysses is not yet to rust

though I shall like you follow knowledge like a sinking star

and drink life to the lees

and strive to seek, to gain and not to yield

yet today I stay back with my own Telemachus

with my own Penelope(?) and rest, but not rust, no, not yet!

 

 

 

 

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