For Isabelle

It's cold and growing dark. Death would
Call this time its own with snow still
Clinging to the branches, icebergs
Clotted on the river, footprints
Of the desperate creatures searching
Everywhere for food. I have my own
Complaints, of course, a cough,
A runny nose, decrepit wrists,
And chilly toes and fingers. Nonetheless,
I plan to live, but who am I to rustle
Pompons, shouting that you ought to,
Too; you, whose body's gravely broken,
Wracked with pain, and, further, burdened
By the urge to wound yourself? It's fair
To say that my decision doesn't matter.
I'd prefer to see you live, but that decision

Must be yours alone.

 





Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 159 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2025-12-05 at 00:59

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Ann Wood The PoetBay support member heart!
SUCH A LOVELY POEM. I AM SO SAD TO KNOW, THAT YOU ARE NOT LON WIT US LAWRENCE. REST IN PEACE MY DEAR WRITING FRIEND. YOU ARE NOW RAIN FREE
2026-01-06


IB M The PoetBay support member heart!
Merci, Larry... your understanding is not one I'm used to receiving about this. *hugs* xx
2025-12-09


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
Your poem has been chosen to be featured on the home page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting on our poetry website!
2025-12-08


Melinda K Zarate The PoetBay support member heart!
Lawrence,

Agree 100% with Allen and D.G. in their comments.

Sincerely,
Melinda
2025-12-05


D G Moody The PoetBay support member heart!
This could not be improved upon.
2025-12-05


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Hear, Hear, Lawrence. A message in your poem that we all would agree with. Thank you for saying this, my friend. Blessings, Allen
2025-12-05