Waxing and waning like the moon

Moon outside the window

I’m tired. Drugs, drugs and more drugs take a toll.  I’ll be pleased to see the back of them, to feel  fresh and clean and vibrant again.

When I’m tired, this kind of cancer-treatment tired,  my writing tends to suffer. My life-long friends vocabulary and meaning abandon me, my speech suffers too.  Fortunately none of you can hear me talking, listen to my words jumbling together or catch the sigh on my breath as I stumble over a sentence yet again.

It would be easy to succumb to this kind of tiredness, to let it wrap its arms around me and drag me down into a deep, dark tomb of perpetual nothingness.  I refuse to let that happen because I know my brain is still here and physically there’s nothing wrong with it.  With a little encouragement it  has the ability to function and like it or not, I’m unwilling for it to slouch off into retirement just yet.  In spite of the fatigue I prompt it do something and today’s something is a poem. I hope you will all enjoy it.

The moon looks through my window, a shimmering glassy gaze,

She shines bright, cold and restless and dreams of summer days.

The moon turns back the darkness, a deep black-purple night,

She creeps across the heavens, a passing satellite.

The moon observes Earth’s trials, ancient, mystic, awed,

She casts a beam for lost ones, their spirits often laud.

The moon looks through my window, she sees me here today,

I smile another welcome, she’ll watch me fade away.