at terribly transitional moments,
the smell is an iron which has sat
on the shirt collar too long,
the beginning of burning cotton,
of the oxidizing water and steam,
and these tell me I’m about
to die, to perish, but it doesn’t
happen as my mind is frozen, as
I’m extinguished but breathing.
.
Death, Depression, Failure, Fear, Isolation, Poems, Poetry, Take Me To The Hospital
This entry was posted on October 21, 2012, 9:38 pm and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
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stillfugue
#1 by Carl D'Agostino on October 22, 2012 - 3:51 am
I’ve been there.
#2 by Carl on October 25, 2012 - 1:36 pm
As long as you’re not the shirt.
#3 by Hawkruh on October 22, 2012 - 10:04 am
getting ready for work on a Monday?
#4 by Carl on October 25, 2012 - 1:38 pm
Unfortunately, this distinctness arrived at lunch on a work day.
#5 by Val on October 22, 2012 - 10:25 am
I always worry about pressing the ‘Like’ button on your poems, Carl, in case it looks like I’m ‘Liking’ the depression. Please be assured I’m not.
If you find I’ve unfollowed your blog, by the way – I’m just changing the way I’m reading blogs. You’re on my blogroll and I’ll visit via that or my bookmarks in future. I’ve a post coming up about this soon.
Please feel better soon.
#6 by Carl on October 25, 2012 - 1:40 pm
It’s my safety outlet, and I only hope I can communicate artfully. Thanks for your comment.