Breakfast In Bed

Belatedly, I've understood a truth:
Life's naught but the displacement of an ache
well-masked by the euphoria of youth,
so one can be permitted the mistake

of failing to discern, to pry apart
its meaning: Pain that jumps from limb to limb,
to settle, when it chooses, in the heart,
and not in fault or error, on a whim,

but by its grand, elaborate design.
Awake, in bed, examining your pains,
your mind, exhausted, searching for a sign,
as blood continues coursing through your veins,

that it is not yet time. That it still hurts...
Until one day, no breakfast. Just desserts.

Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT