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There’s no coming back

might it be
that you hear me only
as a poorly played horn
a bothersome oboe

as you rest in the wheeled chair
with your gown of faded flowers
and a tray of uneaten food before you
I think you have left little of yourself
to control this bird’s body
its care no longer a concern

its eyes they watch something
but not this room
not this person who is me

are you privy to the divine
forsaking all else

a week ago
inches from you
I cried.
you knew
at least that.
you knew,
for there was a wistful smile
a swimming back

and now
I make my peace
because I know that you take with you
something of me

Lee Dunn View All

Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.

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