I am falling to pieces. This disease is taking its toll of me. There are craters within and without; I step into the puddles one by one and drown a little more. I am no one and nothing now. Just a single needle piercing the skin of a body in crisis from itself.
- Lewin Stroke Unit, midnight.
I am sorry to have been so blithering about my blog. I have been in and out of hospital so many times this year it makes my head spin. This month I have had two more rounds of monoclonal antibodies, and to be perfectly honest the poems I have gathered around me are of a particularly ghoulish nature. I read some to Dad last week, something about the shadow and the hangman, and at the close of reading, he rested his head in his hands and emitted a low, hollow moan.
Personally, I am quite partial to these goblin spooks of verses, and I wrote three deliciously dark pieces on the Lewin Stroke Unit over the weekend. The first is above, but I have written it as prose, because today I am home, and it is very hard to concern myself with needles and craters when I am snug as a bug in a rug... home, dear home, where the flowers bloom and the hooded look in my parents' eyes have disappeared once more.
Shall I share the others? Will you moan too?