My Ache

My aching head is numb now from the pain,
The wound of blood and brain, a creature.
Nature is triumphant on my bed,
Underneath this object is a utility.
Cushions and pillows and sheets are spent,
All for the sake of the one in the bed.
It is like a bed of roses, or a bedroom of plants,
Ones that linger with their smell,
And dreams never die, the dreams are not dying.
My aching head, my poor head, it lies on the bed
With a sore wound that no one can reset.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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