my senses are invaded
by the natural blood of nature.
Sounds are overwhelming,
birds unseen spouting sonnets
to the brilliant, rising sun;
the fluttering of leaves
being gently tossed by the wind
as a smooth current of the sea
sways a sailboat;
the vibrant greens reaching desperately
for their neighbors in adjacent trees;
simple cries of faraway children
enveloped in outside play.
My nose makes a familiar twitch
as a furious inhale invites
the fresh flavor of morning dew
infused with soft lilies.
The bark of the mountainous oaks
breathes of strength and unavoidable power;
light brown dirt beneath my feet
sifting up my nostrils,
reeking of peppered earth
and the pungent scent of fresh-cut grass.
The quiet breeze kindles my back
and demands the obedience of my hair
which wisps and floats to its will.
My gooseflesh is called to the surface
as the wind attaches itself to a swift gust,
pilfering my warmth only briefly
before moving on to another heated soul.
The morning is kind and welcoming,
but my poor mood is not improved
as my mind remains poisoned
by a weighty depression too heavy
for my meek, debilitated shoulders.
This murderous disease consumes me
and extracts any thought of happiness
from my worried, exhausted conscience.
I pity every nerve belonging
to my lame, feeble leg.
My broken back, unable to carry
any weight cruel enough to cripple me,
begs to overcome every thought and each feeling
perpetrated by my careful heart.
My entire being wishes to become the fruitful day
and desist shying from her rays,
locking myself underground
in a dark, ominous oblivion.
The birds call to me,
yet their cries I cannot hear.
Leaves reach to me with green fingers
made tan by the summer sun's golden sauce.
But they are incapable of touching
my milky, translucent skin,
dulled by the smoke of darkness.
And the wind begs to play,
twisting the red curls of my hair
with his invisible fingers,
inviting himself to surround me completely.
Yet my nerves are jaded
by the slight potency of man-made remedies,
and I shy away from his coquetry
with sullen eyes and a stale hide.
I seal myself into a black prison
with little light and even less joy.
I am trapped by that invisible warden
who plagues my mind, denies me sleep,
steals away all comfort,
and withholds the satisfying taste of food.
How to overcome such a poison,
such a determined disease?
My mind offers no solution
while my will is completely fatigued,
beaten, broken by wicked sadness.
I struggle with the desire to live,
knowing death would be a swift ending
to my fatal misery.
But I could never again
be able to hear those hidden birds
whispering kind nothings
to all the world; never again
would I watch the leaves wrestle
with each other, their armies
great in number; never again
could I tempt the wind to tease me
with invisible gusts that crash
against my faint skin and lush hair.
And the earth once beneath my feet
will never again feel as light
when I'm entombed below
its heavy, smothering weight.
All things would be lost
in the final scene of death.
And yet I still keep the idea fresh,
available in my ill mind.
My patience is tested
as this illness festers boldly.
And the question begs once again
to be answered quickly and thoroughly:
how to overcome such sickness?
Will it eat my brain
like ants to a plump apple core?
And how shall I die?
Alone?
Still hungry for knowledge and life?
With the devil's hair wrapped tightly
around my neck as my limp body dangles
from lost life and a farewell note
crumpled up on the floor?
Perhaps these questions have no answers,
only possibilities that haunt thoughts
and foul dreams.
This foggy cell becomes home
and my soul becomes polluted
by the haze and stench
of my rotting psyche.
I'm not alive but my heart beats,
a pulse that allows the sadness to spread.
My death would be courageous
yet confidence was consumed and digested
by this fearless beast
years and years ago.
May 1, 2011
Edited May 7, 2011
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