Wisps of darkness
clinging to my legs.
The suffering drag everlasting,
Everlasting.
The sickness laying about;
rummaging through
the fluffy pillows
of such fragile organs.
"Looking for something?"
No. no.
Just the usual.
Right on schedule.
You cannot be aboard.
I say, I say.
No green card, no papers.
Terror.
I cannot die.
Yet the air seems thin.
I shall breathe till next dawn.
Despite chances so slim.
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1 comment:
I like the new style. The repetition, the subtle rhyme. Plathlike, but your own, languid, sad. I think you are very brave to feel ALL of the emotions--the whole gamut here. "The right on schedule," is severe and heartbreaking, real and true...
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