The morning that never comes (to us)

There will come a morning

quite ordinary remembered by a few,

when we no longer will make our

way to the kitchen to put on the coffee machine,

switch on the radio and the computer

to assure ourselves of the continued existence

of the world while we drifted

in Morpheus' bosom.

No quick attempt to capture on

pen to paper the misty fragments of sleep

vanishing in the light of sensory intake,

no little haiku written to carve

our presence to that day's fabric.

No, it will be the morning of frantic

relatives and neighbours ringing the mobile

and the bell, of yawning medics

at the end of a long shift exchanging

a few words with the police among

what we called home and beside

what remains of life: Those stubborn

cells refusing to believe that the
mind was us and nothing more.

25.06.2017