A true story
Like, through this house, from room
To room, to rest upon a couch, within
A chair, a blanket over me, to sleep
And then wake up and eat, to be at
Peace with all I'd war with if I still
Was well. Outside, the wind is
Fierce and cold. The ground is frozen.
I don't care. The world shrinks to
Naught besides a clogged-up head
When one is ill, and consciousness
Is incomplete. I may be sleeping
Or awake. I may be not so sorry
Now that she who's gone remains
Away, and arms which ought to
Cradle me are absent. I will close
My eyes and picture her, but only
Briefly. Soon enough, like everything,
Her image will go dark to me, and I,
Will burrow down beneath my blanket
And be sick.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 63 times
Written on 2015-01-08 at 02:05
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Under the Weather
I've been sick, content to wander, ghost-Like, through this house, from room
To room, to rest upon a couch, within
A chair, a blanket over me, to sleep
And then wake up and eat, to be at
Peace with all I'd war with if I still
Was well. Outside, the wind is
Fierce and cold. The ground is frozen.
I don't care. The world shrinks to
Naught besides a clogged-up head
When one is ill, and consciousness
Is incomplete. I may be sleeping
Or awake. I may be not so sorry
Now that she who's gone remains
Away, and arms which ought to
Cradle me are absent. I will close
My eyes and picture her, but only
Briefly. Soon enough, like everything,
Her image will go dark to me, and I,
Will burrow down beneath my blanket
And be sick.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 63 times
Written on 2015-01-08 at 02:05
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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