Speaking to Cancer (a poem)

My friend is battling cancer.  I can only imagine how many of you reading this post can say the exact same thing.  Some of you may even substitute “friend” with “spouse”, “parent” or “child.”  You hear it everywhere.  It’s a subject that has become all too commonplace in our modern vernacular.

Actually, I have two friends who are battling cancer at the moment.  Both have undergone surgery and both are beautifully optimistic about their bright futures.  I concur.  They will live long, healthy lives.  Probably longer than mine, truth be known.

This has caused me to pause, however, and consider the millions who fight this battle every day: some, over and over again.  It is rightly called a “battle.”  And, while I can never understand the full weight of this harrowing experience (and frankly, I hope I never get to), I have poorly attempted to put my nerve to the flame and write about it, poetically.  I believe there is common ground for all to find here.  And understanding is the beginning of so many invaluable things.

Dedicated to “R” and to “C”:  
Be well.  Be strong.  I love and pray for you everyday.

Speaking to Cancer

Endless Summer.
Eons.
Ages.

Look into my eyes,
Prankster that you are,
and tell me this is all a sick joke.

I know that tomorrow
the dream will wash away.
If I can just breathe until tomorrow.

The sun will rise as it always does.
Breathe the air in.  Breathe the air out.
There.  See?  Same as always.

Day. Night.
Tide.
Time.

Look into my eyes,
Coward that you are,
and tell me why you selected me.

Of all the morphon that thrive
on this blue-green earth,
Mine was too enticing to resist, huh?

Like a thief in the night, you crept
with honeyed agony along each blistered nerve
toward my soul’s secret pith.

With crystal needles you picked every lock,
opened every door,
entered unbidden into every safe place.

And made your home in me.
Parasitic leech!
Sycophantic tool!

You reek of intemperance and decay.
And I will not allow it, whatever it takes.
You will not survive this.

Time is naught.
Taut.
Draught.

Without a drop of dew to smooth its passage
from one tock to a tick,
the torrid wind steals away the minutes of my mind.

Campaigns of crusted loam crack beneath the hours,
as the only memory of my passage rises heavenward
in puffs of rusted dust against the pale blue sky.

Ardor drains out
through the soles of my feet,
and no living thing receives the gift of it.

If my life gave rain to a plant
or vitality to an animal,
that, at least, would be one thing.

But the earth only pretends its thirst.
This land doesn’t need that which is precious
to me… to my family.

The earth is large and full of life
and greater than I.
Why does it require my life also?

My roots are low and
My rings too few.
I am too young to die.

Thoughtless earth.  Selfish dirt.
Let me go.  Leave me alone.
Let me be.

For all the creeping and weeping that is time,
My portion is shorted.
And I’ve been robbed.

Tock.
Clock.
Knock.

Look into my eyes,
Fiend that you are,
and tell me how this is fair.

It isn’t, I know.
No one ever said it was.
But you mistake me for dead if you think I’ll go quietly.

I will run until I walk.
Walk until I stand.
Stand until I fall.

And when the weight of a cloud presses
too heavily against me
seizing the air before it changes color,

I will still be watching you.
You, who could not resist me.
You, who think you have won.

Veil.
Goodbye.
Hello.

Look into my eyes,
Fool that you are,
and tell me how you have beat me.

You have ceased,
ravaged my mortality to dregs.
And I watched you until you were no more.

But air is no longer my requisite.
Blood is out-of-style.
My Fashion is my Flame.

I stand.
I walk.
I run.

Endless Summer.
Eons.
Ages.

Look into my eyes.

Copyright © ImaCrab and “Oh, the People I Meet on Mulberry Street”, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ImaCrab and “Oh, the People I Meet on Mulberry Street” with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

About imacrab

I'm on the road to find myself. Although, I had no idea there'd be so much construction.
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