I, Myself, Am Sick of Illness…

…and old age and death

that surround us now

that consume our lives

in meaningless medical tests,

in eulogies and elegies

and requiems by French composers.

 

We cast ever more ashes over land

and sea and darken

the atmosphere with ashes.

Inhaling deeply

we choke on memories.

 

And how did we forget to dance

the old steps

that gave us such joy?

 

Published by

sanberdooboy

I've been writing mostly poetry for many years and have gotten a number of works accepted in publications and anthologies. I'm most interested in communicating with poets for whom craft is a high priority. I enjoy finding and commenting on poetic gems in other people's work. For my own work, I welcome polite comments, whether positive or critical.

6 thoughts on “I, Myself, Am Sick of Illness…”

    1. joseph, i appreciate your encouraging words. i wasn’t sure if readers would even want to read the poem after the forbidding title. it looks as if i didn’t scare off everybody. — michael

      Like

    1. Nia, I’m glad you like the poem. I appreciate your concern and how lovely you phrased it. Please don’t worry. Just like most photographers, poets often try to write about everything, sometimes even the sad things.

      Liked by 1 person

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