Shipwreck

 

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

2 thoughts on “Shipwreck

  1. Oh, yes. Considering that I’ve been having a flare lately of my chronic pain condition, I’d give anything to get back “home” (by which I mean back to a 6 or 7 on the pain scale, instead of an 8 or 9).

    I’m hoping you’ve not been doing this kind of traveling lately, but if you have, I wish you a speedy return to the domestic land of health.

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