I walk quickly, eyes straight ahead.
It’s best not to glance to the sides,
To witness the ensemble of living dead.
Bony faces, sunken eyes without inside,
Skeletal claws, gripping the seams
Of innumerable poorly made wheelchairs
As insubstantial as their own lost dreams,
Or their fading, failing strands of hair.

Such sights are one to trouble,
To bestir within emotions unpleasant.
Uncomfortable, my pace I then double.
Block out all that is lifeless present.

But it’s not the near sightless yet seeing stares
Transfixed on nothing but claustrophobic air,
Nor all the mouths, left eternally open
Emitting cries, screams, shrieks unspoken
That instill within the most unpleasant of feelings,
Feelings to leave me lost and reeling.

No…

It is the nag at the back of my mind,
Whispering that I too am confined
To the same fate as these comatose husks.
As the nights pass and dawn turns to dusk,
Tighter the tethers draw, dragging me down,
As the circle of life comes around.

But my rotation is not yet complete. Not yet.
Such a state seems but a silhouette.
I am very much awake, alert, aware;
I am ALIVE – this much I swear.

And so I return home at last, pour a glass,
Return to my beloved chair, letting time pass.

Gripping the seams.
Reminiscing past dreams.
Mouth open.

Staring.