I woke again
the pressure on my chest
I gasped for breath
I cried out in anguish,
I saw it all,
the waste, the passing the time,
the death.

In the morning
the sun was shining brightly
and falling yellow leaves
swirled gently with the sound of passing planes.
I rallied.
I got dressed.
I poured myself a drink and tried to live again.

It has been three years now,
and rescue has not come.
I suspect that my present troubles
reflect acceptance that it never will.
I have no more prayers,
I have no more love.
I have no more music.
All I have is the book,
that I do not remember writing,
that I do not wish to read,
that contains my last few good ideas
from a time when I was still free.

I am desperate for a sign of hope,
an olive branch,
a miracle.
I am too beaten to muster hope for hope.
All colour has been turned to grey.
All music empty noise.
All friendship treacherous or fake,
All memory, all beauty, all flavour, all taste, -
everything fades.

I wake up, anyway.