The Island

You stumble onto unsure land and

We wave farewell (but not goodbye)

As our boat bumps through the choppy black sea

Like an airplane through turbulence,

Leaving you on the shore.


For a while it’s not all bad.

The island has its perks;

The trees are your pantry, and

Treasure lies in unexpected places

Where only you would think to look.

You now see the smaller pleasures of life-

Cold water that’s not too cold;

The joy of tasting;

Energy to walk, or sit up;

Waking up.


But Time flies by on a raven’s glossy wing,

Simple tasks such as swallowing and staying awake

Become more difficult every day,

And it seems

That your salvation will be

Your demise.


Suddenly paradise is a prison,

Alcatraz to you, the unsuspecting, the undeserving.

The only ones to know your isolation are fortresses,

Closed, rayless, forsaken.


You suffer alone;

We cannot share this.

Relief is a mirage,

Desired yet indistinct.

It’s simultaneously within reach and impossible,

Like fumbling for a flashlight in the darkness.


The great sea of life wavers around you,

Both your protector and deserter,

Unsure of how to approach, or when,

As people tend to do around a sick bed-

Coming up, backing away, and then coming back again.


We wait back on the mainland of normalcy,

Walking on eggshells around your vacated nest, and

All we can do is look at postcards

And pretend as though we know where you are.