The meat is falling from the bone.

The meat is falling from the bone.

Nothing will stop it

As gravity pulls it down.

Even the floor looks inviting,

It rocks a little,

From side to side,

Hanging on is a matter of pride,

But standing up is a challenge.

Blood struggles to reach the brain,

And light headedness

Becomes the norm,

Stars twinkle at the edge of sight,

Even in broad day light,

And words are hard to find.

Although they are not too far away,

Stacked all higgledy- piggledy,

At the back of my mind,

In a dark corner.

Does that make me little Jack Horner?

Waiting to pull out a plum.

Hoping the answer will come,

To the question

Of why I am at work today.

When I feel the whole

World drifting away.

The weariness

Grinding me down

So much, all the colour

In the world has drained

To grey.

And dirty brown.

Which is a mood

And not a colour.

A weight on my back,

Carried in a sack,

With all my troubles

Tied up together,

With the lost words,

And the song birds,

Who flew their nest

Along with the rest

Of my summer’s,

Many, many years ago.

Maybe it is time

To end this rhyme

While I still have

The patience to make it.