A Poem

I wrote this some years ago in the early days of my illness. Maybe you can relate:

Prisoner of Pain
To bed I must go,
To seek some sweet relief,
But first must battle with your clutch
And pain beyond belief.
Finally slumber wins--
But for an hour—then awake,
Your strident voice and bruising grasp
Are more than I can take.
I hobble to recline,
Sweet respite to pursue,
But all I see behind my lids:
A leering grimace of you!
You wake me before dawn,
With raucous voice’s demands.
I wake and feel your cruel attack
In back and legs and hands.
You pursue me through my day,
Insist that I consult
In what I do or attempt to do
Before your new assault.
Captive, you hold me,
Breathless, I pray
For strength to deal with you
For yet another day.
In labor there is fruit:
A new life, a living wage.
For me, I labor to survive
And just grow worse with age.
Suffering produces patience,
Perseverance and perfection.
In some saints these attributes grow--
But in me, I fear defection.
Submit to God’s carving,
Painful, but sure.
He’s promised me daily grace
To finally endure.
So, a measure of faith,
An ounce of trust,
A longing for heaven,
Patience, a must.
Onward I plod
With staggering steps, yet resolved
To get me on day, one mile
One hour, closer to my God.