I must have dreamed this awful moment into existence, worried too much
over the day-to-day, busied myself wondering what life might be like
in the absence of so much time lost to movement through the necessary repetition
of work in the world. When I found myself home I listened greedily to silence,
breathed it in, embraced an insatiable appetite for solitude and stillness.

And now it has come to this: A voice muddled by hesitation, by the sad, breathy
resistance of a memory that won’t quite gather words. A hand fraught with the hard
weight of its own weakness, refusing movement insisting toward belly. Legs in useless,
spastic motion, forever resisting the weight if a body intent on silencing itself, on bringing
me up short. These days, the air about me is wet with sad, sad solitude and stillness.


3 thoughts on “It has come to this
  1. Impressive. The whole blog is impressive. I sent the link to some friends. I hope that’s okay.

  2. Yes, Lamar it is fine. I am honored that you think so highly of it, Lamar.

  3. You still write poetry. Beautiful poetry. Though it be about something so un-beautiful as MS

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