the heart unsure, shaky in its rhythms,
keens softly for the reason it used to beat.
muscles alternate between hot, manic spasms
and extreme lethargy, the value of disuse.
the lips grow dry; the eyes grow dull;
on shivering tendons i pivot towards the past.
retrospection is a vise, a gleaming tomb
that seeks and captures and demands:
an explanation is wanted, here,
for the choices i have made.
in my broken body, in my cringing mind,
the words cannot be formed! the thoughts
will not be marshaled, but gallop
in wild herds through the desert of my mouth.
without guidance, without impetus,
the disease progresses past reason.