WHAT is comfort?
what IS comfort?
what is COMFORT?
– – –
Oh, what is comfort?
I fear I have forgotten. My words fail to make me feel
When I force them to converse of
Comfort and what it might mean to me.
What does it mean of me,
To not be able to define comfort, for myself?
To not be able to feel this word thumping to the rhythm of my being,
To not have it branching and spurting off
Into fruits filled with juices of ideas, juices of meaning?
Have things spiralled so fantastically
Out of proportion, so as to forget
What comfort is?
Have I let things get that far, that low low low?
I can’t afford to lose anything more,
Even a small word, like
– a word that isn’t demanding on the tongue,
Isn’t harsh on the teeth or throat.
A word, now apparently in the past,
Rendered into a hollowed thing, the exoskeleton
Of what once was.
Have I lost it?
Or is it nestled somewhere, waiting?
– – –
THE EXOSKELETON OF WHAT ONCE WAS, IN THE NOW
Comfort is knowing
that the things that protect,
Can also harm,
So act accordingly.
Comfort is when nothing
Becomes all you have
And all you have to do,
Because the world knows you need a break from everything.
Comfort is having
At least one person on this funky planet,
Who views the things that others say make you sick
As the things that also make you quite
– – –
So, what is comfort?
Oh, look. You have trickled into a shadow.
You sit there and I stare. You darken, only very slightly, the bits you cloud over. I try to figure out what shape you have taken, today.
No, you have not come for me. You have not come at all.
You are what you are in this moment of the now – a figment, of a fractured fragmented fantasy.
No, my God, no. I do not know what you are anymore.
Feature image for Comfort:
“Best Two Out of Three, Shall We?” in graphite.