bed rotting and healing

In the soft embrace of sheets, I sink deeper, the world outside a whisper, time drips slowly like honey, each moment a lullaby, yet the shadows creep, pulling me down, into the stillness of decay. But even in this quiet, a spark flares, a flicker of will— to rise, to stretch, to greet the light spilling through half-drawn curtains, to taste the air, fresh and new, to collect the scattered pieces of my weary heart. So I gather strength, wrapped in warmth, the bed no longer a prison, but a launchpad, each day a chance, to rise, to heal, to embrace the soft glow of becoming whole again.