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Christine Adams Poem
The Box
This box is so small it engulfs me
No windows or doors to be seen
I sit in my corner, thinking:
“Oh Lord, what a wonderful dream.”
I dream that I find a new doorway
The one that’s been there all along
One last look in the mirror,
I know I have to be strong.
I press myself up to the outside
And listen to what lies within
The sound of the silence is deafening
Deep breath and my head starts to spin.
“Don’t go” my mind starts to tell me
The fear going straight to my heart
Blood pumping fast in my veins now
I’ve always been scared of the dark.
Feeling my way through the darkness
I’m surprised there isn’t a lock
My body shaking with anguish
“Can’t do it” my mind seems to mock.
I hear the sound of the laughter
The voices familiar to ear
My hand closing down on the handle
It’s time now to meet this fear.
The motion so light to my touch
My mind all battered and torn
I enter into the limelight
Expecting to meet with such scorn.
The voices abate in a second
No time can be recorded at will
I stare at the faces before me
And notice they all seem so still.
“Good God, my dear woman, what’s kept you?
We thought you would never come home
This party’s been going for some time now
At last you’ve come out on your own.”
I look into the face of my old friend
And turn to meet their embrace
My laughter so light and melodic
The grin spreading over my face
“Sorry I’m late as usual
So much work that had to be done.
But better late than never
The results are second to none.”
Copyright © Christine Adams | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Christine Adams Poem
The drone of machines goes on and on
with the endless cry of the ward sisters song
energy rises like billowing smoke
with fiery glances to the ones who dare choke.
Invisible hand undertake their chores
over the barks and commands of the insistent roars.
The sick and the fallen lie still in their beds
as the army of staff turn it all on their heads.
Rigorous routine steps up a pace
to the onslaught of pressure that's put on this place
Healing and harmony must still exist
It's the law of the land, that one must insist.
So many bodies, so many hands
dancing to orders, between the commands
And so it continues day after day
In this battlefield tent, where the injured must stay.
Copyright © Christine Adams | Year Posted 2020
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