Sometimes you just stop.

It creeps up slowly.
It is not exactly a malaise.
Your spirit remains intact.
You are not feeling hopeless or despairing.
Yet you are simply,
Not feeling.

But as you must,
Do something.
You do what is closest to hand.
Write these observations,
Into poetry.

Sit, not comfortably,
On the hearth rug.
Your outside coat,
Still on.
Your outside shoes also,
Still on.l
Ignore the twinges of pain your back,
And the pins and needles in your feet.x
The fire's warmth compensates.

You have one focus,
The task at hand.
He has made you a cup of tea,
But you have insufficient will,
To move your hand to take it up.
Now he has asked you a question.
But you can't think,
To make any decision.

This is what it is like when you are full.
Detached!