Diagnosis
In the gauze that wraps the morning
The players poise
The ping-pong rackets in stiff applause
Back and forth the humming train
The beating wings on my tender brain
The ball frolicking, bouncing, resounding
In my pain
A gulp anesthetics of air for life
But nothing numbs me now
Only the fear of death remain
And the rope called strife
Dangles on the eye
I cannot climb so high
And why should I
If I go up come down again
These players never cease their contest
Against my wounded rest
And the morning's gauze
Unravels in the lurid hands of day.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
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