These many days, past,
Prone, unmoving, almost
Enveloped in a fine mist of pain
I never saw
The patches on the ceiling.
They smoothened in a blur
As I lay on my back
And looked, eyes
Distant with the discomfort
That grew to be a part of me.
I felt, almost proudly, I now wonder,
In retrospect, my whole self
Neatly accomodating to pain.
And how I never demurred, protested
At its intensity. Vain, I certainly am!
Yet now, forced out of this
painful, accomodating complacency,
I sometimes writhe, hurting,
Crossing new thresholds of recovery…
The blur fades, focus sharpens
And I see the ceiling for what it is.
So like me.
Uneven, faint scars of reworked plastering.
Stretches smoothened, especially around corners…
And the patches, Oh yes-
Each one, clear, takng shapes
That make me smile.
And one, that stands out, distinct.
An ode, a toast perhaps
To a certain denizen of the region.
Long, slim, tapered at one end
Softly triangulared at the other
The entire length, pockmarked
With tiny peeling whorls of pain(t)
A shape bubbled out, by the damp.
So like my familiar friend, who visits
Each dusk, as the lamp lights,
To haunt my twilight wall. Our gecko!
And now, you know, I’m glad
I see, and know, those patches on the wall!
5 October, 2011