The slow drip of a geriatric clock
A hum of life seeping through the pane
Remote discarded from despondent hand
While the screen flickers fuzzy disinterest
To the figure sprawled on the floor
I am wasting my life
I know it, yet I cannot seem to stop it. I sit and I feel it slipping away from me. My get up and go has got up and gone and I have no idea how to find it again, or know if indeed it is still out there waiting to be found.
In my thoughts I am a pioneer, I swoop and soar and plan all things which I could do, list all the things I should do, hide from the things I need to do – yet still I lie.
Curled up in a fortress of quilt whenever I can get the chance, if ever I need not to be at work and sometimes when I should be somewhere else – i lie. Hidden behind walls and I lie, in bed waiting, waiting for something unknown.
I am tired
My bones do not want to move today or ever. I do not want to drag my carcass out into the unfriendly world where it has no relevance, no meaning, no joy. I feel guilt for all of the things I am missing out on, feel bad for those I am letting down, constantly but still I cannot seem to force myself out. I dont know what I want but I know it isnt this – I am a waste of life in this state. Not living but simply existing.
The only thing that brings solace is sleep. I feel I could sleep forever and feel happier lost in dreams for life only brings cruelty and sadness.
Please just let me sleep.
My sister, today, should be forty
There will be cake and jelly
And small floury rolls
Filled with tinned salmon
Or doorstops of cheese
The table is always lined
With her favourites
Sausage rolls set like dominoes
Pork pie soldiers guarding
Pink pickled cabbage
Half a grapefruit smothered by foil
Disguised: an edible hedgehog
Salad will arrive naked, as usual
Cherry tomatoes piggybacking
Pickled onions on pogo sticks
The trifle taking centre stage
Alongside a neglected black forest gateau
In the background a fence of Lambrini
Hated by all except her
And so they watch defiantly – covered in dust
Until the sad charade is over
And leftover morsels are wrapped
Into tubs, for another day
Today my sister should be forty
And yet she is here, but I am not
The slow suction of life itself
Trickles down my brain
Finding its way past hope,
Seeping into the world of me
Vintage doors pinned open
Wide to see – another nail
A second plank over the entrance
Of the place I call home
A fortress of lies
Beyond a moat of shadows
That’s where you’ll find me
Locked in dingy dungeons
Of my own design.
Holding my own hand in bed
Because you cannot
Sun triggered migraine
Wing mirror revealing truth
Exhausted eyes, sunk
“I hate endings. Just detest them. Beginnings are definitely the most exciting, middles are perplexing and endings are a disaster. . . . The temptation towards resolution, towards wrapping up the package, seems to me a terrible trap. Why not be more honest with the moment? The most authentic endings are the ones which are already revolving towards another beginning. That’s genius.” ― Sam Shepard
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