by Richard Vince

When I curl up under my duvet
It becomes a small, dark tent
With only room for me.

These days I have difficulty
Fitting under it though.
Not like when I was younger,
When I could hide away
Without squashing myself up
So tightly.

My fingers have grown too large
To be able to do anything
With a pencil, except
Make random, meaningless marks
On a piece of paper.

Yet I used to be able
To capture the graceful line
Of a well toned fuselage.

One of my pictures still
Adorns my bedroom wall,
But now it is dwarfed
By a Star Wars poster,
And the Teletubbies
Stand guard above my bed.

I wish I could still
Make pictures, even though
I could only ever draw from

And I wish I went to sleep
Before the birds start singing.

But here I am, a veteran
Of some long lost war,
Still hiding away
From the enemy inside me.


Posted on 12/13/2001
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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