The Rest Poem by Frank Avon

The Rest



It's Saturday once again, almost midnight,
another sabbatical come and gone:
another week of no achievements,
a week of fever, weakness, fatigue.

so much undone, so much I'd like to do,
all these poems to share, I'd like to teach,
all I'd grasp that's well beyond my reach,
what I can no longer fix my inner eye upon,

and in the folds of the rose I'll never grow,
among the petals that have shattered now,
what I sought, what I seek that's scattered,
an unfocused mind cannot find, can never know.

Saturday, October 25, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: illness
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