Dying of Light

I lay in the shade
of a illness,
listening to the birds
outside with their sounds,
but I am not by the sea.

Echoes from outside
are lies. 
I bet they wonder why
I lay here and wait so.
There is nothing to do
but crossword puzzles,
occasionally writing
a poem.

An endless sea of poems,
dying to get out,
dying to be created
before the close of day.

I will comply;
I will make them,
fashion them like an art
project from whatever
is lying around.