Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Delusional - a poem


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

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