In suspended animation the words do lie.
My mind a barren desert where thoughts
once flew high.

Arthritis of the brain is such a painful thing
Once under control, imaginings have gone by.
Like a bird in flight soaring towards the sky,
Musings in my brain seem to have died.

The room is warm, and in comfort I sit, but the
pen that I hold is frigid and cold.  The ink is
dry, no color left.   My feelings have been
left upon a feeble doorstep.

 A warm room, a comfortable chair, all around is so nice,
But when I try to move, there is nothing but Ice.

                                       Mary E. Lacey
                                             2010