I get in my car,
And drive to the hospital,
Our mortality plagues us.
Treatment and cure,
Optimism and hope,
The mind is willing,
But the body is susceptible,
To those destined blows….
A bit like the black knight,
In the “Search for the Holy Grail,”
His arms and legs severed,
But an infatigable belief in self.

I drive past the house,
Where we made passionate love,
I can recall all those senses.
Like all things it didn’t last,
But I knew I was alive.
Such a tenuous bond,
Such a capricious journey,
Of stops and starts.

We never know where things will lead us,
And rationality only rears its head,
In hindsight.
You can’t help thinking of those close moments,
That float in the wind like Autumn leaves,
Only to wither away in the dust,
And beauty dies,
And life moves on as darkness beckons.

No more speaking,
A broken fingernail clawing the balcony,
Where Juliet once stood,
Why such complex creatures?
This is our gift and our despair,
The poetry anaesthetises us,
The hospital labyrinth looms.
On the return journey,
Will it be with a black sail or a white?