It doesn’t really hurt that much

but bells and gongs and people dash,

to help a failing muscle pump,

that has been tortured by neglect.

I do not sit around and mope.

I do not laze upon the beach.

I do not overeat or drink.

I do not smoke or swallow pills.

Why then this weakness in my heart

which beats so slowly and so well.

I stand when others fade or drop,

never the fastest but I’m there.

Still it hurts a dull, dull ache.

Is this real pain or just the thought

that I am mortal and my time

while seeming endless is finite?

 

 

David Garlick, Victoria, May 1986