I assume I’ve overstayed my welcome,
Maybe even incurred debt of a huge sum.
This host seems to love handing me labour,
Yet I seem to have fallen out of Hades’ favour.

She announces a new labour a day,
Enticing me towards the doors of decay.
My flesh and bones a feast she awaits,
Cursing the length of my thread to the Fates.

And each day I feel the magnetic pull—
To simply give in and let the soil feel full.
The coward in me simply can’t choose,
So I live to wake another labour, unable to fuse.

Twelve labours, thirteen reasons.
A million moments, a billion treasons.
A few too many dreary seasons,
The doors of death running, breezin’.

Maybe I should feed my host,
Let the Earth consume me, with a toast!
Then maybe I can finally boast
Of doing something useful, as a petty ghost.

.    .    .