Mortality

My brain, now starved of oxygen,
Grows closed and calm. The world
Draws away, and doesn't mean very
Much. Does the house need a roof?
I don't care anymore. Does it need
To be painted? Oh, I don't know.
It's so hard to climb stairs. It's so
Hard to stay conscious. A hole
In the ground seems sufficiently
Nice. The end of such cares, which
Have flown off like starlings,
Leaves twilight. I feel that I ought
To go home. Where is that place,
In the past, in the present? It
May be a hole in the ground.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 97 times
Written on 2016-10-14 at 00:42

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