First Morning (Ward 8)
It takes my life,
through a delicate, plastic pipe.
I lie here. Knowing
I am punctured.
It takes my life.
Straight from my feeble heart,
that flutters,
as the red stuff flows.
My eye's open.
See chest moving, and a rose
pitifully blooming.
A spark of red on an arm
that's a dry, white steppe.
A listless breeze
blows through my skull,
a whimper off noise,
in a long empty hall.
Butterflies in stomach.
Trapped in this bed.
Head full of loves,
who are dead, dead, dead.
In dreams I claw
at loose earth,
with fingers clawed,
as if bones alone will do.
If I apply foce,
scream till hoarse,
spew bile and spittle,
won't bring them back.
Must lie still.
Bear it.
The weight in tonnes
of those dearly departed.
I see it now vivid.
I am waif-thin, pale skinned
a terrible wretch, a thing.
It's drained me. All of it.
I'm so warm that I
must glow as a lantern,
thrown against frosted window.
I am the shards.
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