'The Postern Of Fate is but your own front door'

" Hurting. Hopeless. Helpless. Hollow. "

07/14/12

I

Hurting. Hopeless. Helpless. Hollow.
Illness adds to constant pain uncaring,
until the soul cries out past all despairing.
Uncertain of the pills that I must swallow,
while waiting-ever waiting-for some benefit to follow.

II

Wanting. Won'dring. Worried. Waiting
for an antibiotic that will dry my tears;
to heal pneumonia, sinuses and ears.
In hopes that all infections will be soon abating.

III

Sleepless. Sweating. Suff'ring. ‘Shamed.
Too familiar is that old man's sweated smell
that makes my clothes and linens stink as well.
I no longer know what should be blamed;
this savaging of pain, untamed?

IV

Silence. Sleepless. Saddened. Stressed;
my dear friend, Joan, lies gravely ill in C.C.U.,
and poor Daisy's sick as well, and suffers too.
In pain and chills, I hardly have the strength now just to shower, and to get dressed.
I pray-Oh Lord-to heal us all, and grant us rest.

V

Pardon. Prayers. Petitioned Peace,
Oh Lord, for dreaded pain, and panic's end.
Please send your blessed angels to attend;
protect, defend, and ever grant us ease.
Oh please let joy and happiness in full return,
please make all pains and illness cease.

End

And to my very, very dearest, kind friends, and ever, constant, loyal readers, please always know that I love you dearly.

‘Zahc'