Dry like the parchment of the
scroll of a writ
of so long ago
Thousands of years
hid away
Moments in the hands of
an anthropologist
crackling under his
sweaty palms
grasp
the dry old parchment
will melt away
if not put in sealed
archival containers
dry like the old linen dress
of yesteryear
like a ball of cottom in my mouth
the medical diagnosis
has come and gone
and now my sensations are
minimized
except for the diagnosis
pain that is ripping its’
way deep into my heart.
Trying to explain to my
child that he has to
take medication to save his
life.
Cotton mouth,
loss of taste for the
things you love.
Loss of sensation in my
feet and hands
Sitting I type not
feeling, not
wanting to feel the pain
deep searing a tunnel through
my stomach
I feel full,
gas overcomes my belly
cotton mouth
prevents me from
eating
like the fullness of
emptiness I hold
deep in my belly to
unfold until I scream from
pain and agony
Take the truth,
dealt the truth
no compassion
was the final blow
given
lost in a new
hell
fear of the unknown and
the diagonosis compells
the rickety fence of hell to
open and reveal the ominous
cavern that threatens to swallow
us whole
We must proceed my child
we must go in
Cotton mouth,
sweaty palms,
sweaty feet,
sudden compulsion to
release bodily fluids,
fight or flight sydrome
in full affect
compel me oh Lord
toward the light
Let taste return
Cotton Mouth–
I cannot swallow
for the diagnosis
itself is not paletable
The diagnosis was
given with such cold
precision like the blade
of the surgeons knife
Hold my hand my child
walk together we will
toward the tower of hell
but together we will
climb to heaven
despite the steely grasp of the Cotton mouth!
