The skies are greyer today
late-winter and pigeon-like,
dulling any ambition
I might have of venturing
from my hotel room.

Why had I not noticed
how stifling it feels,
low clouds seeping inside
to disturb the stillness,
choking the recycled air
denying its promise of refuge.

I stare at the pages of my book
that only recently had begun
to capture my imagination
now just strange collections of words
hammered together against their will
into meanings not intended for me.

Night arrives too slowly, and the bed,
- that long-anticipated
respite from a cheerless day -
cunningly becomes my cell,
newly-familiar demons
returning to a playground
that pills can't dissolve.

My attempts to twist time degrade
from a slowly fading wish
- a few more hours until daybreak,
just a chance at fitful slumber –
to the resignation that the dawn
might at least chase my torments
back to their otherworldly lairs.