adventures in dysthymia

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Afloat, a poem


     Others swim laps in the pool of self-pity
until they can no longer find any reason
to stay above water, remain afloat, live.

     Yet I continue this, my narrative;
denying pain, ever I seek to be witty.
I watch, I survive: for a day, for a season.

     Each word I write may be read as fresh treason,
or spurned as no more than a meaningless ditty;
tomorrow was not mine to take nor to give.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

A bit of poem 'in form' -- trimeter in this case. Nothing very deep here (even if it may pretend to be); it's more an exercise in meter and odd rhyme schemes.

My, trying to get those indents to work played havoc with my formatting. I think it's acceptable now... 

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