the spark of synapse,

idea born of impulse,

electrical spitfire

from the cerebral core,

constant trigger of

motion-emotion

bridging the invisible

with the visible.

 

in one mishap of manipulation,

wire cutters on

the electrified line,

frying the cutter

but severing contact all the same,

nothing but pain,

a constant pain,

no rest,

not even in rest,

for the thorn resides deep,

and continues to pierce

the pathway of

damaged resistance.

 

to watch and not play,

to become a bystander

who feels in the way,

who is losing a sense of purpose,

of being,

of contributing,

of living life,

keys that

open doors to darkened rooms,

releasing the demons -

poking and proding

the soul day after day,

provoking fear

and dispair,

panic in the air,

can't breathe,

heart racing for lack

of communication,

the frost settling in on

what was once warm.

 

another day,

after very little sleep,

pushing ahead,

and feeling an upsweep,

but only to be disillusioned

by the cloak of medication,

for when the elixir's gone,

so you remain,

alert,

aware,

conscious,

of everything

that no longer obeys.

 

a hobbled piece of

furniture in the room,

an unattractive white elephant

in the middle of a world

you once contributed to,

and you search for an answer,

and you keep going everyday,

trying to keep the smile on your face

while continuing your decay.

 

getting up again,

one more round,

knock on another door,

and maybe this time

the answer will bring

a cure.

 

and maybe this time

you'll find your way

back to the living

who anxiously await

your return home.