April 06, 2020




Sometimes, I see that poor corpse as a token of doubt's sure twin, and double-mindedness, of certainty, the countervailing guess --.
-- Libra,Thomas Lynch


But how do I know my own, my decrepit
corpse, whose decay within and by subterfuge alone
wends its furtive way through sinew -- alas, too quick --
and even rots my bones?

The torture jabs, shoots, then stabs, its rasping rhythm
harsh, always eager for the repeat of bars that miss
a melody of song, even a hymn of hate. It slithers in,
defies and then deceives

its unsuspecting prey, as, too keenly focused
on the ticking hour, the delight of day,
I'm all too ready to indulge each
second with certain hope, with full abandon --

but then the pain strikes, severs
the minutes to shivering shreds, shards
of doubt, ever without a countervailing
guess, a thought of a solitary hour.

Article © Judith Alexander Brice. All rights reserved.
Published on 2020-02-24
Image(s) are public domain.

2 Reader Comments

Judy Robinson
02:06:06 PM

Very searing, sad poem. The description of hope in the face of relentless pain is in itself painful.

judith s schachter
07:25:49 PM

The pain is relentless but erratic, striking to counter moments of hopeful abandon, leaving the poet to feel deceived, persevering to hold onto hope in the struggle

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