paralysis

The pen lies loose in limp fingers again;
thoughts surge and then recede,
the tide sucking me down too deep
to reach for my words to tell you:
I am going, I am going, I am almost gone...

My arms useless at my sides,
the darkness closes gently overhead without a sound
and it is easier not to protest.
What can language do for me anyway,
against forces such as these?

So many things to unlearn.
Turn back the clock twenty years and
let me hold me for a little while;
smooth the worry lines from my own pale brow,
tell me it will be okay, that the nightmares fade eventually.
Even though it isn't true, I think it might have helped to hear it
at the time. I wish someone would have said it to me.

But they didn't know about the nightmares;
they didn't know about the nightmares, did they?