Delusional - a poem

Delusional

Delusional, eyes semi-closed,

I greet midnight, shivering.

The moon’s light penetrates

the ripped apart clouds,

which scattered by the storm

float away to distant lands.

Not a howl, not a step,

the silence disturbed only

by the sound of falling trees.

As the fibers separate,

forced by the immense weigh

of icicles.

Two days, two nights . . . the hours.

No longer counted, no longer perceived.

No longer . . . accepted as real.

The awful sounds of Nature raping itself,

groaning and howling with pleasure

at the same time.

I, torn between dream and disdain,

lay awake, unable to escape

what I thought I had left aeons ago.

Civilization’s amenities,

I’ve deprived myself of for years,

now taken away from me,

without having any say in it.

Semi-awake, delusional, trembling,

the cold is getting to me

as I begin counting hours yet again.

Only this time, I count them

anticipating what I tried to live without.

Without water, without heat, without light.

The day after the storm,

I am torn.

Copyright 2016 Henry Martin