we all grow old and
die
but I always thought
I’d be different
when I died I was
more worried that
I’d lost my
earrings because they were
a present than that
I’d lost my life,
at first — it
strikes you suddenly that you’re
still thinking,
somehow, though you can’t tell
where you are, like
you’ve been ‛uploaded’
in some Matrix
sense, but then maybe I’m
not really dead
except I know I’d had fallen
off a roof actually
and I keep sleeping and
waking and it’s
gone on for days and weeks
and maybe years and
I am so bored and maybe
I’m in a coma but
I can’t hear anything no one
talking to me in the
hope I can hear and when
when will it end I
can feel no heart-beat or breathing
or breathing or
breath-
Yikes! Mate!
ReplyDeleteThis is what happens when I try to write a poem at the last minute late at night!
ReplyDeletewaiting for a visit from Odysseus?
ReplyDeleteI am really interested in the pressure of the creation, the last minute late night. Coma, moments before death handled really well, I pictured the narrator so well because of the voice. Grace under pressure, Robbie.
ReplyDeletethat's a thought! When you imagine that you're not actually in the place and time.
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