There's something inside
you know shouldn't be.
Hiding, concealing,
begging complacency.
They've told you it's there
then left you to wonder.
Is it survival this time,
or time to go under.
There's no kidding yourself,
it's no childish game.
It's the worst diagnosis,
with the most feared name.
And YOUR name on their list
where they share out the time.
You dance to their bidding
with your life on the line.
Waiting out this long fortnight
for prognostic phone call.
Their telephonic revelation
will you rise, do you fall.
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Author:
dusk arising (
Offline) - Published: July 14th, 2021 00:11
- Comment from author about the poem: Mind games of worry when waiting one's turn in a huge backlog queue for results and prognosis from National Health Service consultants.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 56
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Dan, A Boy With Roses.
Offline)
Comments5
I am sure you will rise d a, you have done it before so no reason not to rise again.
Andy
Sounds about right Dusk. Good write. Hope tye news is good news!
Sorry to hear of your worry , dusk .
although shit happens, I certainly hope it dont happen to you sir .. I guess there are shedloads of us who fully understand where you are coming from and can empathise fully .. I know that aint gonna help, but the thought is real enough ...............
form = 9 3/4 out of 10
expression = 11 out of 10
Wow....
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