In the distance, that is tomorrow, I can see the light
So green and flashing, calling me towards its might.
But truly I can tell you now, my answer to the call is fright.
Wishing in fact that my heart was overflowing with delight.
The glory of distant space is resonating in the night.
My life is fading now, forward towards the light.
The horror in my eyes makes for an abject sight.
I wish it were not despair smouldering my heart so tight.
But reasonably speaking the call is not my birth right.
My soul reluctantly floats towards the eternal night.
About the Creator
Jeannine Kauffmann
Poetry writer in the early morning. Poetry as a wake up call. Then later I draw lines and colours. I have a page on Instagram my art other than words although it contains words too. Titles are important to finish a piece like a full stop.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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