record needles skip through the air,
there is nothing, …nothing there.
Life suspended without promise, a vague tendency down,
and a scratchy, reattachment, to the ground.
This blackness is un-naturally bought,
lives fall coldly this way or that,
no pleading, no hearing,
unresponsive, emotionless, flat.
Left to navigate a world away from others,
confusing realities and dreams,
morphine is a lonely drug,
brings horrors personal, extreme.
But in it a way out,
a journey to home,
to wellness and normality,
to living is shown.
…and I am grateful.