Chores

Is your heart sick?
Do the little chores
Of daily rote
Make your skin blanch,
Make you bite
Your fingertips?

There is love
In this sad world.
You know it
By the way it leaves ,
By the tumult
It causes in the curtains.

Nausea plagues you
At the constant fits.
The way things pile up
Gives you the shits.

You will never be done
In your whole life,
And the love
That is constantly leaving
Will make jet streams
In your dull grey
Skies.