Recliner

The day draws to a close, a life,
And I don't mind. I'm in a chair,
A potent cocktail in one hand,
A poetry anthology beneath
The other. I am stranded in
The eighteenth century,
Unhappy with the things I read.
I can look up and through a
Window at the ice-enveloped
Trees which sparkle with such
Brilliance in the quickly disappearing
Sun. I have no dying wishes,
Dear. I have no mountains left
To climb. I have, instead, my
Feeble heart, my drink, a sense
Of satisfaction. I have written
Poetry which is worth more
Than what I read, and I have
Seen the sparkling trees, the
Sunset, and I once was able
To pretend you cared for me.
The sun will set. My heart
Will stop. The poetry anthology
Will slip from underneath
My hand, and my life will
Draw to a close. You'll go on
As you do already: as if you
Are rid of me, and I, inanimate,
Won't have the means to say
That I don't mind.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 81 times
Written on 2017-01-18 at 00:36

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