The writer’s burden
Heavy as a lingering thought,
A drink on a coaster,
Lungs of lazy acrid smoke,
(A spent shell casing,
A coffin lid.)
Absolutely wrought with it.
Rotting absolutely with it.
I see the colors, but there’s no feeling
No life, it’s all grey as they say
So I describe them, imagine what they feel like
But nothing still
I understand the thought
The sentiment of drinking Drano
Filling up pockets with rocks,
Seeing everything in green at the end
Being brave for instant enough
To set hammer to pin
But I don’t feel that either
Somewhere. I know
Somewhere there is some warmth
Some pulse, some life
More than just chemical
Beating around me
And I feel it
I feel it barely there
It seeps from my eyes to my nose
A little run, a sniffle
A momentary star-filter on the world
I know it beats
And though I wish I could
Reach out, grab it all and wring from it
The depth of the colors
And the joy, and the contentment
And get them right way
Just bathe in them
At least having to wait
Affords me time to describe it
Until it returns to me
When it reaches out and takes me
Pulls my head to its shoulder
And fills me again
Copyright 2010 Andrew Whiting
[I’ve made some changes to this poem, rather minor, but I don’t remember off-hand what they are, so you’ll just have to live with this early version]
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