Comfort Accepted

                              Threads on the lampshade, spun                                  long ago, dim in shadows                                     of subdued light.                                  Full in the darkened den,                            long-forgotten treasures, congealed                              with layers of accumulated dust.                                  Snarled like the knotty                                  pine, mirroring the room,                                echoing lackluster passion.                                     Habits and clutter fit                                   one another, invisible                                     fibers have me bound.                              A burl-like existence, a tainted                                      blemish to some,                                   epitomizes my beauty.                                 Dreams, dashed by disaster,                                 weathering difficult spans,                                 now is the time for repose.                                  False comfort accepted                               and rightly adopted, confirm                                   a frayed subsistence.