The fist that clutches at my throat
\ndrags me gasping from the deep
\ntwisted waters of sleep
\nleaves me beached in tangles
\nof linen, panting in these
\nscattering shadows.<\/p>\n
No rescue this:
\na provocation, a brutality.<\/p>\n
I am not ready for this island
\nnor it for me;
\nI wade out to the tangled flotsam
\nthat is my raft
\nmy vessel,
\nand argue the waters
\nagainst the uncertain winds and tides
\nuntil, at the edge of famine
\nI roll into their clammy embrace
\nyet hear the lurching tread
\nof that cruel colossus
\ncalling me.<\/p>\n
[podcast]http:\/\/riverwriter.ca\/podcast\/giant.mp3[\/podcast]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
This poem I wrote in early morning after another night in the sleep lab. CPAP is not a cure; it is an affliction too. Continue reading