All that is left is me
A friend was told he had cancer and when offered radical treatment to rid him of it, he declined, as his prerogative. I could not come to terms with that then and wrote this in protest so that he could see how his death would affect his friends. He did have the treatment (though probably not due to my poem) and is now living a full life again, aged 32. All that is left is me It is me ... kind of, sort of me Occupying space where I’m meant to be Lying on the branch of a gumyum tree Answering questions I cannot really see. But not me, actually, not in a sense Putting on the cloth and making a pretence Brain wrapped in cotton, peering through a fence Coming over dazzled, nebulous and dense. My body then? Could be, I don’t rightly know Recognise the scars - well, those out on show The stuffing knocked out like the lumps in a dough And all those blurry edges between yes and no. My face, then? Smiling through my pain Manners I suppose, run deeper than the grain "Sorry for the trouble, I’m perfect in the main" Grin and bear, hooded stare, convince them all I’m sane. Yesterday - was it? - you went and lost control Someone offered death, you blithely rushed in to enrol Never mind the left behind, you take care of your soul Tomorrow I will find a way to climb out of this hole. Hey! Damn you! (pardon me, I’m doing it again) I haven’t got the wherewithal to mourn for selfish men Seems to me the Reaper’s sword was mightier than the pen But still I would have fought your fight, if you’d said where and when.
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Dawn
Started writing poems at age 14, lyrics a lot later and am still doing both to my astonishment. Along the way I wrote a couple of novels and they are published by Amazon. I am gloriously happy in my marriage, after 50 years and I am relieved to say...
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