At Twenty-Five

THEY told me I would not be whole again,
 that this now was my life;
 that I could neither drive, nor work,
 nor stay long in the bright sunlight

I WAS to be a creature, then, of illness:
 I was this disease --
 That I could look on life from inside walls,
 But never as I'd please

BUT SCIENCE, it turns out, is human:
 Well-intentioned, incomplete --
 The life I've had turned out quite differently,
 And rather much more sweet

BUT WINDOWS, still, are memories:
 I look through them, remembering,
 That I am lucky every time
 I'm exiting, or entering

FOR THESE, our bodies, finally fail:
 They are not made to long survive,
 But this one's gone three decades since
 They told me this at


Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

Leave a Reply