My spirit curls up tight into a ball, whilst my mind lies, facing up towards the sky,

Its ethereal limbs lain out wide. They bicker eternal, unaware of what the body does.

To sit here, and think intricate thoughts for the rest of my time, and never act on one desire.

To write a boring poem, that never ends, and never starts.

The words pile up like sand in an hourglass.

I languish, telling myself the same story for the third time, and nothing has changed about it,

And I don't want to hear it again, yet I do. I cannot keep myself from it.

Is this the existence I have come to live?

My mind and spirit wonder, turning a question into another.

What will come of us now? Where has the body gone?

The spirit believes, it stands upon a chair, necklaces of fibre wrapped around it.

The mind argues, however, that the body is sitting in the chair,

And it listens to the two of them talking within, but only half paying attention.

Little, do they understand about the nature of the body, as it laughs without shame.