To Sigh Poem by R. C. Welford

These mountains of mine, made into molehills,
Before the breadth of our lives.
The peaks are covered with faltering will,
Stifled hearts, but an urge to survive.

The seas would part, for the nature of my ills,
If only my legs could carry my chest,
to the sea. and so bitter salt never fills,
my mouth, never brings pain to my mind's crest.

Thus the wind touches not my skin,
It howls through the trees, breaking the boughs,
Where my limbs should be. i have no pain for sin,
And wait for thoughts to thin, and turn foul.

This numbed life, topped up with little sighs,
Will break the air I lust for,
Into the pieces I feel of myself. it cries,
Somewhere. my blood it cries, somewhere.