Not a new poem. But still true.
Illness is a foreign country.
The language is strange, the natives are harried.
You don’t know how you got here, nor the way home.
There is no horizon, no familiar stars to guide you.
Like Gulliver in the land of giants,
You’re poked and prodded to give up your secrets.
They draw your lifesblood,
Rifle through the chambers of your heart.
Where, you wonder, is your passport
Back to where you were
Before illness carried you away.
Linda M. Langer