Going Under
A sea of silence sometimes strikes this bed –
a shore of sedatives. Sounds are separated
at first: a pillow’s plink against my head,
then I give my arm. I writhe against the fate
you’ve decreed: drugs that wash the rivers bled
in secrecy. Fearfully I meditate
out loud. I’ve got some “poems”. Three or four
describing silence. Then I hit the sea-floor
head-first: a screech of sound, absence. A death
sort of desired, arrives, or permeates?
My gosh. Well? How long was I under for?
Only a quatrain? Gosh. I want to *leave* the shore.
Squidditas 