From the recuperating room

From the recuperating room.



Not words of lament

It is of imagination a filament,


Even the mighty Oak

Needs the sun to soak,


Every man’s foe

Is a mind of woe,


It is to this effect

That the illness affect,


Time to rise

Hence need to prise,


From a word of muse

I like to choose,


Not a heart wry

Nor the need to cry.





Silence deep

Uneasy I sleep.

World outside

In a corner I hide.

I hear child talk

Not always a bright folk.

Body heeds to food

Mind seems to brood.

Casual words sting hurt

Kindness brings vast might.

I wish for truthful perception

Not callous deception.