Poet#19 - "Untitled"

You are not dead.
The lights are blinding but no one ever called flourescent lights heavenly.
They draw your eyes tight together and make you see red pin wheels.
But, You don't want to look away and see those steel bed rails.
Sometimes you peak through them like they are a window and see...nothing.
Just a fake white stone wall.
Bleached away all of the Ambrosia.
Scrapped clean the meat of all of the nectar.
All that was left was these bone white walls.

Your drooling again.
You should wipe it off.
There was a time where this would be appalling to you.
But life feels so very heavy.
You could compare this...this...existance to a jail.
Except the foods better in a prison.
They all slap the food on the tray,grunt and then bugger off.
You always say thank you anyway.
You always were a chatterbox.

You glance at the call bell twisted around your wrist.
It kind od reminds you of a remote.
Time is measured in television here.
It's been five episodes of "Maury" since your daughter last visited.
She says she's busy but she doesn't tell you what keeps her busy.

The sudden queit tells you,you'd like the tv on now.
It buzzes and scraps at the the inside of your skull.
An incubus sitting on your chest.
It hurts to just push down that red power button.
But The nurses are tired of channel surfing.
It 's not your fault there is never anything on.
You always prefered books to the boob tube anyway

If were all books,old books with cracked hunched over spines and yellowed pages, how does this on end?
Is there a climax?
A resolution?
A shady white tree the right shade of white?










The End

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