Death knocks
I’m stuck in the bog land of poetry
Trying to make a small manuscript of thirty pages.
I have reached 29 pages, but all seems so futile
Words I have written before keep cropping up
I can’t endlessly repeat myself.
A doctor visit at the hospital was not uplifting
I’m trying to shake off the depression hanging over me
Dark clouds are blocking the sun, and it is cold
The future is bleak nothing to look forward to
My wife is ill, so I’m stuck here when I want to go home
To my village, I Algarve.
The dream is to go home and die where I was reborn
Remembering my dog and the long walk we had.