(Lots of subtle changes were made to this to improve the imagery & the meter)

“Are you feeling better?” The People question me still,
I would they’d find a better way to phrase it with more grace.
I have no answer that will not sound as shrill.

I explain that my brain always runs off downhill
That I see her not breathing, but my words leave no trace:
“Are you feeling better?” The People question me still.

Sometimes I wish to shout them down, to spill
my overflowing pain on them, to leave me with some space.
I have no answer that will not sound as shrill.

They mean to assure, they’re full of goodwill,
They try to mould me , to find a safer thinking place
“Are you feeling better?” The People question me still.

Medication might work, verapamil, some other pill,
to featherbed away the darkness, To wrap me up in lace?
I have no answer that will not sound as shrill.

They haven’t had to swim these depths, to struggle up this hill
each day, and all that they can think of is to ask me to my face:
“Are you feeling better?” The People question me still,
I have no answer that will not sound as shrill.


			                    3 March 2024