Grey Skies
Poem by W Roger Carlisle
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This is how the world appears
when the person becomes insufficient.
A fog, a darkness, a black dog, sink holes in solid ground,
buzzards circling, dead leaves blowing in a storm.
I dance around it with metaphors,
paint pictures of the pain with my words.
Time slows and every breath becomes difficult,
my chest is in a vise, I can’t get out of bed.
I circle empty days on my calendar with no hope,
no plans, no purpose.
Minutes feel like hours; hours feel like days;
days feel like weeks.
I fight the overwhelming emptiness by
stripping away the false and nonessential.
My best hope is every bit as likely
to occur as my worst fear.
It is time to open up and swallow my suffering,
reconnect to everyone I love.
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W Roger Carlisle is a 79-year-old, semi-retired physician. He currently volunteers and works in a free medical clinic for patients living in poverty. He is on a journey of returning home to better understand himself through poetry. He hopes he is becoming more humble in the process.