Sorrow's Host

See it tenderly, the rotting apple on my counter,
Quickly crumbling under grasp of death.
Death who so foolishly I've invited here,
Through carless squandered life
And daily bathing in justified sorrow.
And thinking, you’ll leave not this day but the next.

Weeping ways prevail in this perch
Calling to my ailments, every had sickening encounter
While I reflect as the host.
I’ve grown so eldered while this guest of mine promised departure,
And now many decades gone,
        I know they won’t be leaving.
What horrid work I've done, waving aguish through my door.
Then more and more I dined with it
At a long table set for many courses.
Through each a sour taste,
And mouths full of moments either burnt or unhatched.

Entranced by convenient appeal, I welcomed sorrow.
So simple thought I,
It would be, to share a meal with despair for the night.
But many nights this guest stayed in my house,
        keeping subdued my will,
And vibrant my self-contempt.

Pain who I carried,
Who asked so much of me,
Who consumed more of this feast of life than I had intended.
I find myself taxed,
Having known these many years that sorrow,
A very bad house guest,
Will be, unfortunately with me, in my last tomorrow.