The Battlefield

THE BATTLEFIELD

The darkness of my tiny pupils
Focus exquisitely with manic-depression
And how pain becomes art.

I lay in a slight curl
Facing the wall upon the bed
In a deep dark stare
With wanting death
As a nurse walks in.
The slow roll over on my back
Feels like the vultures are near
To peck away at me.
I stick out my right arm-

The pinch of pain
That I feel from the I.V. into my vein
Is linked in my battle to be sand.
Only the tiny droplets
Resulting from this illness
Keep dripping one by one
As I continue to look on.