This time there will be no poetry
No songs, no tearful prose
No floating into thoughtscape as I
stare at the tiny lights that play
across the walls of my dark room.
No, this time will be dry.
Functional, minimal, standard.
Only the necessary detachment procedures
as I relish the realization
of having got over emotion.
This time I can save time
for the things that count
work, produce, live as before
and revel in my growing strength
as weakness dies an early, sad death in me.