Progress – seldom linear – tosses me into unexpected decline – stranded and incapacitated. My son – with labour-hardened strength leaps to my side, steadying
There is anger in dis-ease, an impotent railing against the injustice of biological systems bent on breaking souls; this relentless drag, this mournful existence, it
Tried to drop in, visit the past – hoped to resurrect old passions – all that remains are intellectual reserves, in need of costumes to
Social invitations sing of acceptance, delightful opportunity to intermingle for the hale, the rehearsed, practiced in the choreography of wardrobe appropriateness disability cringes – NO!
(Note: I am revisiting old posts, trashing the unimpressive, and where possible, editing. This is an edited version of an earlier poem. Visit the original
Nestled in with childhood truths – second-hand, missing perspective – nursing a creeping creativity: insignificant clarity expanding measurably, hurried. Once social, now retreating papered over