no story but a poem for oct 25

Behind the counter I stand and sleep. A clock that ticks but does not move, a man who sits but does not stir. My friends go out one-by-one, while I remain day-by-day. They drink and make merry, while I make drinks and look merry. In my hand I can feel the weight of the golden ducats I so do hate. No time or place to spend what’s mine; I simply gather, and feel like grime. The morrow brings yore’s recitation, yet all I feel is lamentation. Threads are spun, and woven one, and in my stead I lay in bed. Nothing lasts, everything is past, and now I’m last.