I was Wounded,
And bound and attended
By those who Know--
I went forward--Healing.

But with October
Came the Cold,
And the wound Spoke:
Contracting inward,
Trembling, prickling;
Readily gorging itself
On my natural shiver,
And joining with members
Here fore unafflicted,
It seemed to speak,
With its own Voice,
A Voice from the very
Core of my Body:

And this Voice
Was of Final Sickness,
Of the ultimate winding,
Grinding down toward
Black, inescapable Death;
A voice of old Battles,
Of fields of Bodies,
Of Blood, of Stench, of Gore,
Of whitened bones
Picked clean by birds,
Of howling senseless
Ancient Dogs that Ate
Of the Flesh of Men.

No, it was not in the Ear
(No flimsily earthly sense)
This new voice was surely
The Voice of Ancient Man.

10/22/2006

Author's Note: a surgery

Posted on 10/24/2006
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes