Deadline
I see that I am living a dead life
and the daily life
leaves no impression on me,
and before I know I am turned into a stick,
already fossilized
and life passes me
while I do not get involved with anything.
Too many times
I had daily contact with death
and now I die from life
and every day do the same things,
the same work,
and are caught immovable like an idiot.
The same things
I write over and over
of Johnnie loosing Sally,
of love that charms,
or war that still resounds in me
and on our hands
the blood, the damned blood
and I feel at times as if the Lord doesn’t hear.
I try to live right,
to respect others,
to honour the Lord
and my poems stay the same
words of somebody surviving
and I still am able to adore
and what the church prohibits feels so right and true
while life hits me back
past the beginning.
I still feel, weep and laugh
and sometimes sing in the shower
as if nothing
is wrong with life
and I keep dreaming,
set myself to win
and to stay alive
while the deadline
slowly comes nearer to me
where my heart will beat its last stroke
before it will stop eternally.
poem by Gert Strydom
Added by Poetry Lover
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