Waiting. A poem by Eoin Coyne

I already guessed
That the test
Would show my chest infested
Deep into my lungs,
Ever before the doctor called
An hour ago.

Now good or bad;
I need to know.
I hate the wait.
Just tell me straight;
Seal my fate.
But no,

I’m stuck in the fucking spare room,
Deliberating the crisis
Going on in by brain
As I strain to remain
Calm amid the chaos.

The kids keep bickering,
The Wi-Fi keeps flickering,
And that clock is ticking
In and out of time.
I try to act fine,
Ignore the headlines.

My head compiles
A list of catastrophic disasters
That fester and foster,
Giving uncontrollable power to this imposter
Living among us;

An unwanted enemy
Breeding and growing
And throwing
My life apart.
Does this mark the start
Of the end?


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