This time

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.