Tumult arises from the tension in my valves.
Life processes are rendered to a pause
In effect, cells are suspended in a glass
In an aqueous medium that resembles gelatin that rot.
Collapsing from the stress of these thoughts
Omens that my inner impressionist mocked
Worms that gnaw at the most sensitive spot in your decrepit calves.
It’s no wonder I limp when I get up and walk.
The galloping, I had used to sped up has halt.
Multiple sclerosis has me at my wit’s end, the densest of fogs,
A turbidity that makes every psycho therapy session go long.
Dysfunction is a genetic gust, sweeping away everything you love.
Depression is one’s rush to quickly enter the temple of god
Stretching my palm out I welcome death into my secular hand.
Flexing my tendons to jump wholeheartedly into the Nebula’s pond
An endless abyss where my descendants plunged, at the edge of the world
And it really is the edge, because it’s far as my senses discern
But, perhaps there is a dimensional worm hole,
A vacuum leading into the presence of your soul.
Eternity’s door hinders it from festering alone
Preventing it from becoming the resin of compost.
Good and bad coagulate in the terra firma.
With this in mind philosophers dare to sermon
On the negation of the idea of sterile karma.
They’re not wrong, but their terrible at counting
Partly because the variables are countless.
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