Atrophy (Achy Leg Blues)

another night of lyin' here

staring at the black

no sound but my own breathing

and I'm whisperin' to the night

as the shadows whisper back

and I ain't been good for sleepin'

since before I can recall

got to get my head examined

'cause my maind keeps asking me

if we'll ever sleep at all

thoughts gone gooey

my mind's all screwy

and I don't know what to do

to get my mind off of you

my spirit's gone to hell, baby

slow and deadly atrophy

ain't no use in empty prayin'

'cause there ain't nobody there

to take away my agony

please forgive me, baby

I'm doin' what I can

And I know I did you wrong

I'm sorry that you're hurtin'

Wish I'd been a better man

thoughts gone gooey

my mind's all screwy

and I don't know what to do

to get my mind off of you

-J

Haunted on the Peak

Amidst the mists and coldest frosts,
With stoutest wrists and loudest boasts,
He thrusts his fists against the posts
And still insists he sees the ghosts.

And though a friend of gentle mind

Might rest a hand most soft and kind,  

Upon his brow to ease his pain,

He sees them now, and shall again.

But is he mad, this weeping soul?

For having had his sleeping stole

By restless shades, forgotten, cold,

Ravenous for years untold?

Or shall we fear a man so haunted,

By the jeers of ghosts unwanted,

Awake and doomed to wander dim

In desperate gloom, through nightmares grim?

He can't outrun them, nor can we,

But do we shun him, leave him be?

Inhuman choice, it is, I know,

His wailing voice, we hate it so.

Our mission here, through frozen hell

We persevere, and those we tell

Of our adventure shall be spared

The detail of the choice we shared.

They warned us when we took the work

That many men were shook berserk; 

Over time their minds unwound

From the climb so far from ground

And mad we are, and most afraid

Of howling cur, if trap we laid

Should fail, and we'll be fit to hear

His raving wail on frostbit ear.

We've climbed so far, so close to done;

I'll cut the line that holds the one

Who's tortured us from ground to summit,

And silently, we'll watch him plummet.

But when it's done, I fear his cancer

Shall be mine, a sneering answer

Cursing me to shambling, daunted,

Madly rambling, likewise haunted,

Amidst the mists and coldest frosts,
With stoutest wrists and loudest boasts,
I'll thrust my fists against the posts
And still insist I see the ghosts.

-J

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Note: The first stanza of this piece is credited to Curt Simodiak, in his 1942 novel, "Donovan's Brain".