Poetry

My Home

My Home   Grasping at straws, I bless another day Of having felt not much less than all right. I wrote a paragraph and put some more Books in a box for books to throw away. Such were my deeds. Now, short of breath and sore From all that effort, I prepare for night, Which occupies the windows as I climb The stairs. A step up and I stand, each time, Posed like the statue of a man in pain, Although I’m really not: just weak and slow. This is the measure of my dying years: The sad skirl of…

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