The irregular margins of damage
A heavy object falling into my arms,
Between my legs, resting,
Then rolling out of bed and falling
Again and away from my room,
Out of my life and pulling memory
Until it split me down a rough middle,
Every underlying structure
Of the old life and its world shattered,
The future nothing but irregular margins.
I think that I would rather like
To live in a castle
Walking to the downstairs library
Selecting one book among the hundreds
Sitting down by a finely crafted ornamental window
Occasionally gazing out at the perfectly manicured gardens
Or donning a sweater on a cold and snowy day
Relaxing on a regally red sofa
By a towering stone fireplace
The wood cracking and popping
While I sip the finest brandy
From my crystal goblet
Perhaps instead losing myself the entire day
In a few of the many rooms
And not seeing anyone at all
Until dinner was served
On the elongated mahogany table with elegant linen
At precisely six p.m.
I have been at peace with my life all day
Then something happened to take it away.
It starts very slowly and I try to ignore it
Much to my dismay I have to admit
It is there in my body, and won't go away
Unfortunately the same as any other day.
I just want to sit and peacefully sew
But it's taking me over, that much I know.
Listening to music and doing my sewing
The feelings deep inside me are growing.
"Be strong, don't let it take control",
I try to fight it with all my soul.
My fingers won't go where I want them to.
"Don't let it get the better of you".
My peace was shattered again today
By the shaking disease that takes it away.
Please don't feel sorry for me
"Que sera sera" What will be will be.
This is the cross I was given to bear
Though I have given many a silent prayer
I can still carry on with many a task
But occasionally , still, I have to ask
"Why was my peace shattered today
When I was just sitting, doing OK."
I feel like a pianist without his hands
My body won't do what I demand
Just like a singer without a voice
I have to give in to it, I have no choice.
Like an artist without his paint
Stop what I'm doing without complaint,
Like the marathon runner who gets cramp
Have to give in now, not todays' champ.
I know this will happen every day
But each time it happens I feel the same way.
I'm not sitting here feeling sorry for myself
One again my sewing gets put on the shelf,
I'll find something else to occupy me
Without this inside me, how would my life be?
Surely I'm not complaining if I simply say
"My peace was shattered again today".