It drags me down, a diver to a wreck,
to where the pressure on the lungs alone
would be enough to crush me, flesh and bone.
Condemning me between two sheets, it sits
astride my chest and makes of dwindling wits
ragged shreds of fleeting thoughts and dreck.
The brain oppressed and beat down to a weep,
nothing works when all you want is sleep.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Don
Wheelock would be pleased to hear them.