BY DAVIDMURRAYLAW@GMAIL.COM

Fate

 

 

 

Edward Munch.

Death in the Sickroom, 1893

 

When you sense 

that your maker

is just an careless cough away

a handshake that shouldn’t have been

a sneeze that should have gone

into a sleeve.

 

Then you know

that you are in a maelstrom

an abyss that goes forever down

that you face a winter

that might snow forever

a year without seasons.

 

Is there a reprieve

from this derive

is there a place

in which we can huddle

and try to sort out this trouble

before it sweeps us all away?

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