by Nick Gisburne
Perspectives bounce like echoes out of key
They play and pulse with light around my bed
The visions shimmer, swirling with debris
A swarm of paper phantoms, drifting, dead
My body does not know if I’m awake
Or where the morphine locks my pain to sleep
The needles tell my sinews not to shake
I sometimes hear a troubled woman weep
Emerging from the mists, that cautious smile
Her eyes have known the best and worst of me
She fills the room with chatter for a while
But runs to find a cup of tasteless tea
She knows. The pain has taken me again
I press the button, breathe, and count to ten
