On these cloudy days I treat my couch like it’s a coffin
I climb inside and close my eyes and remember the sun as if we lost it
Imagine days of warmth and grace that makes my stolid nature soften
But instead I’m left with cyclic death where early afternoons are darkened

On these cloudy days I treat my couch like it’s a coffin
Purchased from IKEA and built with LEGO like instructions
Where the glimmer from a TV screen is the only light regarded
That narrows my horizons and keeps my ambitions lethargic

On these cloudy days I treat my couch like it’s a coffin
My skin melds to the cushions and my dignity is orphaned
Socializing feels abrasive and no longer deemed important
So I watch people from my windows even though I keep them boarded

On these cloudy days I treat my couch like it’s a coffin
No answered calls or visitors; I don’t need my privacy accosted
My nails are overgrown; my is beard gnarly grey and frosted
The couch coffin is my tabernacle and Netflix is lord and sovereign

On these cloudy days I treat my couch like it’s a coffin
I can live my life a stem, and never be forced to blossom