158. The Lady of Shalott

I am half-sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott
-- Alfred Tennyson
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I am half-sick of shadows
and of their warm web squirming on my unawake skin
I yearn for the hard touch of crude realness
like a princess gone begging in her streets

Verily my stomach aches for food more bitter to chew
sweet dreams have gone stale in my bloated throat

And yet a block of unattended desires restrains my ankles

I am half-sick of shadows
the other lies comfortably entombed in their sickly-soft embrace

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Hahaha, Tennyson doit se retourner dans sa tombe ! Encore un fantôme littéraire au pied de mon lit...