Nausea

On some evenings, the stillness is broken by pangs of longing for the sky
And then the aching makes itself felt as it pierces the shroud like silence
Yet a heaviness like unhealthy slumbering yellow air lies thick in layers
To fight it would be to engage in its choking, deadening, sluggish depths
The wickedness in me, that spurns the phlegm of homely love, is alive
My bilious reactions, sometimes diluting themselves to resignation
I know not what I seek, I dare not part the blinds and peep, into my dreams
Lest they desert all that is familiar and old, the earthiness, and my nest.