The Couch

Oh, what wicked webs we weave woe to those who are not thin. If we weighed as most would lust, we might roll like a dust bunny under the couch.

Oh, what terrible coils we twist, pumping blood and shaking fist till faces red and straining necks we force a calm with what the hecks and collapse on the couch.

Oh, what sinful toils we work with sidelong glance and knowing smirk we sweat and grind the flour so sweet and bake the bread with our heat of surrender on the couch.

Oh what massive molehills we build, of words not said, of voids not filled like voices without sound lost and then found like dust bunnies under the couch.