It's not fair to ask the spirit to assume
The burden of the flesh, but that's
What mine's been forced to do.
The flesh is dying. As it does, as
Its heart heaves, and as its lungs
Pump hopelessly, like leaky bellows,
As its brow grows moist with sweat,
It begs the spirit for a break. “Can
We not go to work today? Can we
Rest on that chair, beneath a blanket?
Can we go to sleep?” The spirit snaps,
“No, we cannot. Our days are
Numbered. That's okay, but I will
Not allow them to be wasted, hopeless,
Pissed away, as those of someone
Twenty years or more our senior
Lets them be. We'll charge, as
Wounded rhinos would. We will
Struggle. We will do our best
Until we drop and die, and, thus,
We'll die with dignity, unlike those
Who are “invalids,” a term which
Bears a double meaning: one who
Cannot get around, and one who
Hasn't any worth. I plan to mean
Something until they throw you
Down into your grave, and, if
You're too worn out to help me not
Be meaningless, I'll pull you up
Onto my back, and bear you
Toward that hole, resigned. You are
My burden. You've become
The lesser part of me.”

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 66 times
Written on 2017-04-05 at 01:59

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Nancy Sikora The PoetBay support member heart!
It is the spirit's job, isn't it, to drag around the body until the end?

Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
Interesting soliloquy, but I am with your spirit. Life is short and we need to live it every day.

antoniya katelieva-wood The PoetBay support member heart!
Nice poem