Still Life


From chalk-white walls the blank clockfaces stare
at my half-broken body on the bed;
I shiver under ceiling lights' cold glare.

No seasons here, just dry preprocessed air
and silence like a morgue's, but I'm not dead;
from chalk-white walls the blank clockfaces stare.

My garb's a shapeless sack of blue -- why care,
nowhere to go with ghosts for legs; instead,
I shiver under ceiling lights' cold glare.

Stout doctors ponder stratagems, but share
no thoughts: I wonder when I'll next be fed.
From chalk-white walls the blank clockfaces stare.

At times faint voices murmur "Is it fair?",
but no-one's there, it's echoes in my head:
I shiver under ceiling lights' cold glare.

An empty chair aside, my chamber's bare,
a monkish cell from whence all hope has fled.
From chalk-white walls the blank clockfaces stare;
I shiver under ceiling lights' cold glare.



© David Nourse 2010


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