Bad

It can’t be all that bad.

 

Blindness never bore bad sights.

Hunger never bore bad tastes.

Freezing on a park bench never burnt.

Drowning in the deep never parched.

 

At least you can play on,

In refrains of indigo and periwinkle,

In desolation and depravity.

In strings like sinew.

 

At least you have your finger bones,

At least you have your lonely soul,

At least you can still lift the notes

If not lift  your head to breath them
Out.

 

So play on.

Play on.

Because it can’t be all that bad.

It just can’t be.

Reviews

[MJW]

I love your take on it! It's so interesting.

[Christian Bonoan]

Nice poem! It's well-written! Keep it up!