Confined: Sloth, Torpor and Doubt

A lazy Saturday,
At least for now,
The humid weather
Making everything sweat,

The clamminess irks,
A migraine lurks
Fuzzying the mind,
And slowing the wit;

So sitting becomes
A contest with
Sloth and torpor,
And far out fantasies;

Doubt stumbles in with,
Breathing?
What’s that?
Why bother?

The brain is too swamped,
And the body aches
From the soggy atmosphere
That engulfs everything.

What’s needed perhaps is
A good foghorn,
To steer by
In the mist;

Or shall I just
Trust my gut
And sail on
By instinct?

I feel so weighted down,
Could it be
I’ve accidentally dropped
The anchor?
Is that what’s holding me back here?