The Hammer of Pain

Looking back on
it all
now, I
find it odd to
experience
the compression
of time.

Although each and
every day
in the hospital
and bedridden
at home lingered with the
deliberate grace
of mildew creeping up the kitchen wall, when I
dwell on that
period from
the comfort of my
own desk

NOW, it's like the
events overtook
me years
ago, in a
far country.

Did it happen to
me or
to someone
else?
Was it a
play, a book, a
novel--
penned by an
author with an
unrecognizable nom de plume?

How does the mind
leave the body
And where does
it dwell when the
hammer of pain
smashes into
the iron avil
of time?