My Daily Defeat

It's the yellow scimitar again, a flash at first,

I move away just in time, a half-roll on my unwilling torso,

I run my fingers over my cheek, where the gash would have been,

There are many of them now, piercing my bedsheet-armour as though it were muslin,

It is a new day, and I am not prepared for the onslaught,

The flanks are narrow, the enemy relentless, I am capitulating,

I writhe about pathetically on the battlefield-bed, the creases like wounds,

Wretched technology conspires and the alarm on my phone goes off,

There is a clanging in my ears, it is the bugle of a perverse and unequal triumph,

I open my eyes, and survey the wreckage of my daily defeat.