Morning Star Poem by Peter Eliastam

To sense or sight, no hint of hope appears.
This solid night-long grieving liquefies
The dawn of yet another day to tears.
I lie bereft. Bereaving light denies
The value of my dandelion years.

Prone years, disintegrated, out of joint;
Antarctic winds have blown their seed away.
Time past revolves around my centrepoint
Of present prospects for a future day,
Already guaranteed to disappoint.

So does it seem to reason, and to sense.
Unsteady options rush my mind in thought
Unthinkable – caught in evanescence
Between pathology and overwraught
Revolt, each faculty strung taut and tense.

Must I accept these fraught unwanted hours
In slow motion, when white-hot agonies,
All firestorms, incinerate the flowers
That once bloomed prettily in memories
Of expectation’s late resilient powers?

Disease can not be left behind. Instead
I find for ease, that I can emigrate
With resurrected mind to shed my dread,
In other tongues emancipate my state
While languishing, unhealed upon this bed.