Poem 61

I fear that I’ll fail to keep my grip

On the good moods in life

That the dark thoughts will overcome

The ongoing fight.

I push the darkness away

But the words attach deep

They cut the good into the ground

Ready to sow new seeds.

I’ll wish and I’ll pray that new moods flower

To sustain this decaying body of mine.

A week, a month, a year before

The return –

will I ever be fine?

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