COMING TO TERMS WITH SCHIZOPHRENIA – Barry Tebb
Why our son why?
Every morning the same dark chorus wakes me,
And I wonder how I am still alive.
“Balance the forces of life and death”
Is the Kleinian recipe for survival.
“It is God’s will; life is meant to test us”,
My Christian heritage tells me.
“Life is a vale of soul-making”, Keats reminds us.
Insistently the morning traffic hums
As I sip my tea, the list calls to make, and I
Sigh in frustration at unread books.
For solace, I look at cards of Haworth Moorland vistas of unending paths,
Cloudscapes only a Constable could paint High Withens in a gale, the sloping village street.
How? When? Why? ‘The truth’ – if such an entity exists –
Is that I want to run away?
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