Night, slouched around the house
Well fed fire, glowing in the stove,
Machines, humming low on standby.
I sit and wait and watch in the in-between hours.
Tomorrow will hardly bring answers,
But will at least offer new hopes of recovery,
And every morning the bandages are changed,
the cuts cleaned and washed,
But still searing with a sharp sting.
Too long in this position,
Face to screen and the world behind,
But what was I to do and what are we to do?
What is there left outside for use to find?
Virtual living, and always close to the power,
And batteries fading by the hour.
And the harshest critic ready to strike,
Sword raised high above head,
And how could one continue as such…
But there may be a way between the reeds,
Where the water is not so deep or cold,
Where maybe years ago we too could play,
And dream of being old.
Ah, at this stage,
And on it too- the stage,
With sticks to break
And rattles to cage.
But yet I cannot rattle off those verses,
that might have laid clarity on diverse happenings,
and given a sense of certainty, to the midwives and hearses,
and humbled men in heaps, piercing their private hearts,
and not just agonized the senses, with vague promises of art.
Oh, if I could weave them dense,
and draw them down like fog,
to settle heavy on your brow,
and cloud your thoughts within.
And oh, if I could then have stood aloof,
And sacrificed some ardent gain,
To sit cross-legged at your feet,
And indulge in poor love’s pain.
Maybe that is why I tried to find,
A high ground where many roads are seen,
And instead of picking one,
I went higher still, and still and still,
Till all things grew tiny and remote, and yet
I could not get my fill.
I could not fill my hall,
with tasteful furniture,
without dying somewhere somehow,
at the end of it all.
Now such ramblings are not much use,
Such stumblings not much good,
No gambling more obtuse,
No mumblings when I should,
Be counting blessings and striking forth.
As a matter of fact the wheels have stopped,
The windows closed, the doors are locked,
And in between the shafts of light,
Some idle thoughts pass through the night.
And only so to calm the mind,
So absent pains stay ill-defined.