(More old metaphysical nihilistic poetry.)

The Lethargy

These hot summer days,
Dry arid,
The bone-burning heat,
The kind that shouldn’t make you lethargic,
But ultimately, it does.
It makes you ponder,
The cold should make you sink,
The bone-chilling, blood freezing,
Crushing cold, under the skin,
The frost that makes you lumber forward.
No, it’s this blaze,
You believe, that crushes your soul,
Like accepting a fire burning around you,
Unable to move.
The children are not splashing in the pool,
The gardens are wilting,
The very gardens that sprouted with spring’s life,
You just wonder,
Why this heat?
At least in the cold you can seek warmth in the homestead.
It’s the kind of heat that should make your blood boil,
But instead evaporates it, dissolves it, turns it into tar.
Sweating, but no coolness or relief,
Accepting the agony like
A fatalist cur or a nihilist swine,
Of which neither perspire.
And possibly you adopt those philosophies,
Just heat,
Just sweat,
Both hopelessness and inevitability,
At least in the cold, you can freeze and die.