MY BLACK ANGEL

The shadow of my wheelchair is like

A raven an Edgar Allen Poe image

guarding my hell, my black angel.

I woke and the raven was gone

It turned back into a wheelchair,

Nature is only a footstep away

If only I could walk.

The light floods into my room

and creates a shadow of rain rippling.

They say an English-mans home is his

Castle and this hellhole is mine.

Its 2009 and I live in a middle age, limbo

All I can do is cry,  I cant even commit suicide.

I’ve got to fit into an able-bodied timetable,

I piss in a bottle each day and wheel-

Chair a wheelchair:  I’m as low as a spider

or a mouse.  Wood louse and beetles highway

my floor, shell-shocked noble beasts.

The blue is crying from my eyes into

the reservoir of loss.

I’ve been waiting a lifetime for happiness

and four years for contentment.

I know these images come up again and again

But there’s nothing else in my life only

torment and pain.  This is only half a poem

From half a man