St. Dymphna's Song

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

c. 2016

Submitted: August 19, 2018

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Submitted: August 19, 2018



When the night won’t quiet–you sit still at your windowsill

And stare, and stare, and stare into the nether and the ether,


But you can’t see either. Only Sol can lift the veil, drawn

Carefully around the edges of that world. Yours is a display-box,


Viewed for free by anyone who cares to come by (they rarely do)

And swarmed by flies though there hasn’t been any fruit for a long time.


Yours is one of long beige hallways (never white), of days spent in limbo,

Languishing on Lysol-scrubbed sofas longing for the air, the air–


And that room. Your mind is still strapped there, not yet released

From the sting of a needle and the hazy silence of the sedative


Will you ever find relief? The night does not answer (it never does).

Only a flickering lightbulb reminds you of your hold–on, off, on, off.


On the desk, tiny scout ants march past the mangled body of a centurion–

Another Great, fallen.

© Copyright 2018 Renata Sudek. All rights reserved.

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