The ceiling hovers like an airtight lid.
The pounding in my head, nails,
I no longer resist.
I rest.
Rest is said to rejuvenate.
That’s what I’ll say I’m doing.
In this airless room,
I wait.
In the past, I had the strength
To run out the door to fields a flower,
To trudge toward the exit,
To crawl.
This state becomes the new norm.
I breathe smaller breaths,
Make fewer moves,
Eat less.
Oh, to fade from existence.
The crunching of the termite’s jaw
Muted, as from some distant land
Where destruction is merely change,
Deterioration is transformation.
I exhale.
Exhale.
Don't forget that inhale part too. Your labels are almost as powerful as your poem. Since I don't know the full situation, I will go with the flow of the labels, starting with the caretaker and casket, then moving on past depression and the fade from existence, and heading toward the light of hope, strength and transformation. At least until told otherwise.
ReplyDeleteYou are right, Tom. Interesting how alphabetical order can be poetic and move toward a hopeful outcome. I'm glad you pointed that out -- a roadmap worth considering.
Delete