A month was once just like a little mound--
So easy crossing over to the next.
Twelve crossings, and a brand-new year was found;
So easily it skipped, and left me fixed,
Still here, and marching on through time--
Familiar-strange, which always marches on.
The next mound now seems tall. A pit of lime
Might wait for me, when next a month is gone.
Each new month, now a mountain I must climb;
Crawling over rocks with weakened limb,
Breaking, bleeding, prospects growing dim,
Craving life as if all time were prime.
My throat has felt the first nick of the knife;
Now every moment is my prime of life.


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Written by Michael LP, aka PoetWithCancer
aka (thanks to my dear friend Luna Marie) Mr. Poet
Written on Saturday, November 26, 2011 10:20 PM PST
52 degrees F. Humidity: 24% Forecast: fair
Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael LP. All rights reserved
(Copyrighted for my estate)