Sanctuary, a poem.

Light, wispy, brown and gray hairs tickle my cheeks
as the cold whoosh of the fan chills me. I can still
taste the bitterness of the cold that flew in,
sitting as if king, upon his throne in my sinuses.
The muted noise of the television barely graces my ears
as my runny eyes seek the bookshelves adorned lovingly
with lights, foliage, paintings, and sculptures.
Rich with the colors of the earth, green, blue, rich browns,
this bedroom feeds the mind even while a
virus courses through my system. Alas, I am
seated in the comfort of my bed, wholly one
with my sanctuary, allowing for the pretend
luxury of my surroundings to carry me off
into a hopeful healing sleep.