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All Deviations


I lie with aching head
In my hot imprisoning bed
With a splutter, cough, and pain; I am alone;
I am left myself to mend,
In the scenery to blend,
And nobody hears my silent stifled groans.

And the ceaseless stream of time
Flows its uncouth course sublime,
And the lives of others peacefully exist
But time for me means naught
In a cell of rambling thought
And a hope that soon this sickness shall desist.

(Tuesday, 28th March, 2006.)
©2006-2008 ~dasliedvondererde
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Submitted: March 28, 2006
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Author's Comments

At least I am well enough to write. You know my excuse if this is not up to my usual standard. My Inner Poet, however, feels much better: having not written anything for some time.
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~dasliedvondererde:icondasliedvondererde: Mar 28, 2006, 1:35:48 PM
You see I am so ill I make "alone" rhyme with "groans". I am afraid, yes, I thought I had a rhyme. I clearly cannot concentrate. But we always find such ghastly rhyming pairs in pop-song lyrics; and one assumes that normally pop-song lyricists are able to go 48 hours without being unable to sleep or do anything else, so I am wondering what their excuse is.

Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod!!!

--
I have gone astray like a lost sheep: seek Thy servant; for I do not forget Thy commandments. - Psalm 118 (119)
~Holy-Mecha:iconHoly-Mecha: Apr 2, 2006, 2:36:50 AM
We've all been there - so ill you can't move your head, and so bored you can't even be bothered.

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"The human capacity of suffering is what we should cause to be respected, not the mere capacity of existing." - John Stuart M