The fear of each looming moment <br />is over before you had a chance to <br />know it in your lungs, on your skin. <br />It regenerates, comes alive and walks <br />slowly toward the other moments, <br />the new ones queued to die. <br /> <br />All the bleeding, all the fevers, <br />all the slow, horizontal afternoons <br />leave nothing behind when the <br />healing hands are laid upon you. <br />What remains is the worry of <br />what comes in the morning: <br />the struggle to control that <br />which can never be harnessed. <br /> <br />The pills are variegated and smooth, <br />like pebbles scattered on the Eastern shore, <br />each one sweetening the tongue <br />before circling the drain inside. <br /> <br />Then, you wait for their magic <br />and it puzzles you, <br />the way we live our lives <br />searching for a way to ease the pain.<br /><br />Tara Teeling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/temporal/
