Delusions scatter, inspiration dwindles;
how then shall I progress?
The world revolves on a shaky spindle
and the heart barely beats in my chest.
Having given so much to this wretched life,
I fear I’ve gone insane.
I awake at night with a sudden fright
and a fever in my brain.
I reach into descending light -
a trembling hand extends;
my fingers white, with no insight,
I grip the writer’s pen.
Words drip onto a page uncurled,
a scattering of thoughts still burning -
my soul calls out, “God, let me out!”
and speaks of desperate yearning.
Like splattered pools of fallen rain
that swallow my reflection,
I’m lost again and deep within
the fog of introspection.
And still no words to rise within
my consciousness this day -
expressions of this tortured scribe
Must find another way.
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