Pain in Linen Relief

Essay by fathmathshifnaCollege, UndergraduateA+, October 2006

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White linen upon mattress pressed

Colored brown in ages spent

Creases folds spoil the weave

While a man lay in prose of death

Autumn in trees he sees is set

Golden brown the light is made

The warning of coming craze

To which he might be spent

The fallen light idle up the headboard

Leaning it strayed to wait on the wall

The silent keeper of darkening days

To which heat would but expunge

Trestle brown to corner cover

The gear to which he be plugged

Blink & beep rent the prone still

Keeping him to loud for another spell

His eyes to left make it to the Trellising

On which perched a dainty vine

Twined to nest beside the window pane

Boasting the nesting white breasts eggs

Near some shells broken remain

Sadly the whole, to date did not make

Eggs doomed like him they stay

To meet the womb of coming death

Say for instance hand of time winds back

To a quarter a decade from today

The scene of today could have changed

If not a helping hand to one had he rendered

Was a man in shoes of peak form thence

Tanned limbs toned to the knot

Ligaments wound muscles strong

Crops of silky hair in wax combed

Till just pass a forth night of that day

Planes were his to be wed a dame

His highschool sweet heart and life

Into whom he hath spent his manhoods' past

But alas the work of fate turned the tide

Till the sun on him did fade

Whence he slipped on gravel fine

As he ran and saved road kill of a child

The child, of him a debt did keep

As even now she sat holding his hand

Dews of sorrow flowering in her eyes

As her rosy cheeks of them be wet

Down to her waist slim her plait end

The braided brown hair fondly held

By a scarf of heliotrope flower on white silk

Laced with fuchsia outlined with black

All but her, they have left his side

Even the love he hath had before

The unfortunate kiss of fate

That brought to bed him till this day

The air is stale and crispy cold

Her breath in vapor glowed

In the neon bulb on ceiling low

Tiled with cheap papers faded

The chair on which the damsel is rest

Brown and eaten with moths of age

Weak to shoulder even her frame

Broken at the hands of sorrows evil test

Stand it does to the right of the bed

Closed to the window, setting sun lit

Coated with shadows to corners bled

When in spasmodic sobs she submit

To follow through to let him leave

Into the arms of this night hungered

Out of these arms of liberal grieve

For enough was he in pain aspired

Close of switch a smile for first formed

Last breath in deep was his swallow

In years his skeletal jaw reformed

To peace and relieves comforting hollow

Thence he embraced peace he hath craved

And the damsel felt the light in his eye seep

Seep away slow and fine as he hath asked

Begged of her, she a pillow to his face pressed