I'm sick. There's a pain
with no name emptying
to emptiness. The unspeakable
at fever pitch sustains
a vastness to the Void.
Black holes suck in
fielding their magnetic pull
and streams of lexeme trails
diarrhoeic.
And somewhere there are sickrooms
with sickbeds and bucket
but I lie quiet in this sickbay
the smell of ozone
on my breath
where the surf breathes
in and out, always shifting
sifting sounds of shingle
I mistook for angel wings
- lexeme: a basic abstract unit of meaning; a head word and its inflections
For Bjorn’s Open Link Night @dVerse where anything goes as long as it’s poetry though I was almost tempted by his optional mini prompt from one of Neruda’s questions
PoetryPix 