Rumpled Sheets

The sheets held me womblike last night.
You thrashed beside me, ran down your dreams.
Our great-grandparents made love, gave birth, died, in one bed.
The death rate is low under fluorescent hospital lights.

You thrashed beside me, ran down your dreams.
We die, together, most nights. We awaken in the morning.
The death rate is low under fluorescent hospital lights.
But there is more than one type of death.

We die, together, most nights. We awaken in the morning.
Our great-grandparents made love, gave birth, died, in one bed.
But there is more than one type of death.
The sheets held me womblike last night.

This rather crap poem is apparently a French pantoum. It is part of Abbey of the Arts' poetry party (I got tired of going to my own pity parties, so I decided to attend a more communal, albeit online, event).

My excuse for its crappiness is that (a) I don't write poetry and (b) I have written nary a thing (except blogs) for the past two months and am as rusty as an ocean of nails :) But still, it was fun (albeit rather depressing fare. What can I say? I have a winter's worth of flubberness to get rid of).