Picking away at the feet of Pleasure

 Senses of pleasure keep me awake; Friends, happiness, sleep — all are at stake.
What shall I do, a creature of habit?
Is it a flaw that I so inhibit?
No! I can say — the only constant is change.
But how, then, shall my days arrange?
Bit by bit, even pleasure grows estranged.

What wealth of riches, bed of kings,
Highness without its wings — it brings!
Yet I cannot find it in my sedated state.
Where in the stars — a billion years ago —
Was written my life? A dated fate?
Here it stands: now I shall cross this gate.

Innocence I cannot presume, for I have grown;
The fruits of labor are unborn— they were never sown.
Calling away — who hears me: god or man?
Falling away — are those dreamlike plan.

Cast me off, call the guards, freeze my place.
But who are they, if not myself, in this hellish daze?
The wheel is in motion, the dice already spun —
It all began, innocently enough, to have some fun.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ophelia_%28painting%29