When in Pain

So close to my very being it stands,
Wrapping its tentacles 'round my arms,
Threatening to kill but killing not,
Squeezing my soul to nearly naught,

I writhe and struggle, all in vain,
Like my very esse shall split in twain,
And yet, I stay the same, struggling still,
Such is pain, that destroys my will,

It stops thought and reason, even time,
Swearing, forever, to steal my prime,
Blocking the passage of every breath,
As I curl within, praying for death,

And slow and steady I see no way,
But to accept that the ache is here to stay,
I learn to live life anew, beside the pain,
Carving a new path for my breath within,

And then it loosens its bloodstained clasp,
Feeding on the cede I threw as bait, a trap,
And though I fail to see who's won,
I smile a little for there's a little calm,

And then I see for now and ever,
That peace lies not in quiet but in true surrender,
That the twists and turns shall hurt not,
If I'm to flex to pain's will and haught,

And when I've learnt to turn and bend,
To manage to sit at my seat's very end,
The pain that came it slips into null,
Leaving with such an exit so dull,

It seemed in contrast to all the drama,
The agony, it gave, the suffering and trauma,
But perhaps 'twas right to leave so quiet,
For I've learnt now, the power to accept.

Prologue

I see now, it's not just left quiet,
It's left behind in me, a lasting quiet,
A silence that speaks of the knowledge I''ve got,
A kind that can be spoken by words not,

Now I worship each moment of health,
Cherishing it as my greatest wealth,
And with each inhale I take,
I breathe out, whispering a silent thanks.

Holding Hands

They talk of a tight embrace,
Of lips meeting in a kiss,
Of a slow, revolving waltz,
Of candelight dinners,

Of a long walk at night,
Of sharing a beautiful sight,
Of talking 'til morning,
And of sex when it's raining,

And yet, why so passionate do I find,
An intimacy that's one of a kind,
When your fingers curl within mine,
Claiming me as yours, by my hand?

Lost in a Book

Lost in the cluttered pages of his book,
He squints, giving the words a deeper look,
Tossing in a tasteless snack or a sip of tea,
He staggers pitiably, on the edge of reality,

Touch'd not by the shaking ground,
Nor by the loud noises around,
He lies, motionless on a colourless seat,
With each chapter, accomplishing a nameless feat,

Drunk with the heavy content in his arms,
He's aloof to the spurs upon his numb frame,
Moved not by the strongest nudge,
But moved so much by teary lines,

He dwells in the world portrayed,
Glamour speaking to him in the language of words,
He rejoices in a realm that's complete and full,
Tranquil, dancing in a joy inexplicable.