(living with Crohn’s Disease)
I listen to the grumbling within
feeling rivers of throbbing pain
coursing through my flesh,
cursing the vulnerability of being.
When the sun rises high enough,
I hobble to my seat outside
and watch my weans at play.
Which helps. For a time.
But the mind turns once more within
as the next wave of pain
rolls callously, carving inside me,
forcing me to close my eyes.
You never stop seeing, though,
or feeling, especially in the depths
of the broken man you have grown into,
moaning for an end. For peace.
In youth we consume fantasies
like an endless supply of sweets,
creating innumerable potentialities,
most of which fade into the past.
But now I thrive on the sweet realities
of my beautiful wife, my weans.
Yet I still talk to the glowing moon
and wander worlds I have never seen.
And I keep going.