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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #2047279
This is a poem about recovering from mental illness and future plans.
Dusted with earth,
Fallen from a great height,
I move so slowly,
Trying to regain my sight.

Broken somewhat, I am
And in need of care,
But finding that saint
In the middle of nowhere?

That great gap between
Was not money or fame.
Instead it was recovery
From an illness not named.

I survived foreign wars,
In combat, I thrived.
Now in the darkness,
My thoughts take a dive.

The good doctor who cared -
He has taken his leave.
Now my free fall is ending,
But don't be bereaved.

This path leads somewhere
And I can't tell you when,
But I'll be a doctor,
And the sick, I'll defend.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2047279-The-First-of-July