I am no longer real.
This transitory existence has gone;
A shell remains.
The summer heat bakes my bones,
This skeleton of a once life,
And I fear for the turning seasons;
The cold will crack me asunder.
Whereas others flit and flaunt,
Parade around for all to see,
I do not.
I cannot.
Time elapses in passing clouds
And migrating birds;
They leave,
As do I,
Although my mind has left already.
What am I becoming?
What have I become?
I must confess,
It makes me uncomfortable.
I fidget within and without.
I stew.
I wait.
I wait.
I wait….

8 thoughts on “Uncomfortable

  1. Agree w/ Wallace that ending! Also I think this is a lot like some of those Tennyson ‘he cometh not!’ styles, in that it really pulls the emotion out and shouts it out! I love that! Trying to remember the entire poem in question something like ‘he cometh not / I would that I were dead’ and it’s just so viseral like this. A classic R!

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