Poetry is a faint buzz in my brain this morning

like a radio station

that I can’t quite get cleanly in tune

Cobwebs of dreams

exhaustion

still clinging to my synapses

despite ten hours of sleep

spirit is willing

body remains weak

unfamiliar

foreign

items slipping through my hands

to the alarm of others

I have learned to laugh

at clumsy fingers

numb leg

lurching walk

because, really, what else can I do?

Try to engage

trembling hands

to pick up the threads

of my creativity

that circumstances

have pushed me away from

like a relentless tide

leaving me battered and bruised

The word enigma

echoing like steel in my head

Could be sexy

mysterious

if I was the blind assassin

not a poet struggling

to remember

that she is more than breath

aching muscles

rogue limbs

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved