it twists you, darling...
you were knocked down by the first symptom
you were kept down by the thousandth symptom
yes, you have been brutalized with every one in between
a thousand-fold plague and you within its poison jaws...
you're so frayed darling
yet you bargain for energy again today
but like the arctic sun
you rise with no real strength...
it's a mad dog's disease
--its silent growl only you can hear
--its flesh tearing bites only you can feel
in the stillness of your slumber
in the darkness of your grogg...
even the sweet kiss of morphine
this best friend of man--
this seemingly sleeping dog...
your beauty, darling
which I can still see
cannot pierce the heart of this beast...
will not tame this angry dog...
now you can only dream
of how healthy you once were--
until the beast frightens you once more
back into the nightmare of now...
paradoxical is the insomnia, darling
--that black wolf often howls at night
when it attacks only easy prey--
it scavenges for the powerless
whose will has all but fallen
from the vine of life...
even now my love
you mean to shout
but you can only whisper--
you tell me about the pain
which petitions for
your now nearly bare bones
and whatever else still falters
between life and
a few of your friends called today
they seemed suspicious
--said you should have been well by now
--said they too were sometimes sick
but at those times they just pushed themselves until they recovered...
the system always intrigued you, darling
with its many whirling wheels
with its many ringing bells
even those bumps and shakes
you said kept life challenging
--you were always so mesmerized
--you were always the victor
with such little effort.
I recall when you worked
seven days a week
you had your own business
--which you left only to do the banking
--which you left only to attend Church...
but your fourteen hour days
were always crouching at our doorstep--
waiting to steal another few hours from you
while you cooked and cleaned and
I remember the day, darling,
Jeanne, Grover's wife, says:
when your candle finally melted...
it became a tiny pool of supple, spent wax--
yet, still you managed to let your light shine.
I am a 37 year old woman, who has had CFIDS for the past 12 years. About 3 years ago my husband wrote this poem. He writes short stories and poems, and he has a good understanding of this terrible illness. My husband saw me at my best, and now at my very worst, and still keeps loving me. For him, I am grateful. God has blessed me.