Poem: Comatose

11

In the first few weeks of my freshman year of college, it was very dark and rainy. Aside from complaining about having to walk across campus in the rain, the logical response for me was to take this experience and write about it.

I had a rough draft and then emailed my instructors from the Write Moves program to get their feedback. The first three stanzas mostly remained untouched after my correspondence, but the rest were additions.

With any writing endeavor, you can ask for feedback and advice but eventually you have to make the decision for yourself. They offered decent ideas for how to play up the color or lack of color and how to further extend the comatose metaphor. I’m sure if they were the ones finishing the piece, they could have pulled off the ideas they suggested. But their ideas didn’t really fit for me. I followed their advice for getting rid of unnecessary words which helped strengthen some lines. They did get me to keep thinking about the piece instead of considering my draft a final version, so that’s good.

The more I look at this poem, the more I’m reminded of “Injustice” and its abundance of imagery.


The once pulsating sun now lies dormant
Beneath sheets of gray and silver;
Trapped in a coma.
Is there anymore orbiting red-orange warmth left
Or did it burn out,
A used-up light bulb
Discarded into the black hole of the trash bag?

Hypnotized by the steady jet spray of water
(Tears from the clouds),
I sit inside, fingers pressed against the window,
Longing for any movement,
Any hint of existence; praying
That the days to come will be graced
By her presence; hoping
To see her blinding smile once more.

Rain cakes the pavement and grass
With its fulfilling drink.
Wilted daisies and sunflowers
Slurp up strength and stand tall
Thriving in a dead world.

1

Minutes dissolve into hours
Becoming days.
She stirs among the blankets,
Tears a slight hole,
A glow filters through.
At a steady pace
The clouds cease to cry.
Her smile is slow
But reaches the ground
And touches the glass of the window
Warming my hand.
The slick streets fill with life,
My shoes slosh through puddles.

Gray and silver sheets replaced by clean white ones
And the clouds make faces again.

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