September 6, 2013

 

 

When the salt in our wound

has washed away,

and the healing process,

stopped the decay.

We should feel blessed,

to be given the chance.

It’s only natures way –

the boil, to lance.

 

When the plaster of paris

has done it’s job,

and held firm the break

that made us sob.

And yet even years later,

when with oil, we anoint.

It’s always going to be

our weakest point.

 

When lovesick fever

confines us to bed,

and no amount of medication

heals our head.

We lay awake til dawn

and toss and turn,

recalling lost decades

for love we still yearn.

 

When the point of incision

cuts through the heart,

and arteries sever,

as we fall apart.

We build a defence –

a show for the world.

Though inside our cocoon

remaining, tightly curled.

 

When at the end of our days

and our heart beats no more,

and ‘Do not resuscitate’

says the sign upon the door.

And all the hell raising,

is now a thing of the past.

Yet, through agony and ecstasy

we lived life with a blast.

 

When deep in the ground

with our demons we’re buried,

and a life that was fast

is no longer hurried.

And although we may hammer

on the coffin lid,

only distant voices can be heard,

saying, ‘Farewell, see ya kid’. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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