Card Building

Nimble fingers numb with fatigue
refuse to toil anymore
eyelids weighing down with ennui
lose focus insidiously

the soul however, is unforgiving
crying loud for its want -
to fit in, to concord, to belong,
it dreads being left out, being out of place
an old obsession that just dies hard
a quenchless thirst teased by mirage

daring not the swiftest blink
nor the tiniest whiff of breath
the soul sets to work with zeal;
even a fleeting sigh of relief or respite
could spell nothing but decisive doom

slowly but surely rises the tomb
the epitome of normality and calm
the soul delights, atlast atlast!
only to dread the slightest jolt