The POM
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The POM

Twisted

A poem on isolation

Photo by Roma Kaiuk on Unsplash

My head is spinning
Spinning around the last drop of rain
In an attempt to preserve it
In an attempt to protect it
In an attempt to have a reason to keep moving

My hands are trembling
A reaction to the wave of silence still in sight
In fear that we might miss the night
Never knowing when the day takes flight
Locked with time out of sight

My feet are weakened
From the constant attempt to move a body
A body that has forgotten the rhythm of movement
But holds tight to the rhythm of worry
A body that has forgotten the touch of the sun
A body too weakened to yield to weakened feet

My heart is racing
Hoping to catch up with the speed of time
To hold it by its wrist and demand for a rematch
Another chance to see the beginning
When held hands were allowed to calm a racing heart

My chest is tightened
Locked away from the reservoir of oxygen
Surrounded by a fog of uncertainty
Buried in the soil of decomposing memories
Drowning in the sea of recycled scenes

Can you see the chain wrapped around my neck?
Can you see my failed attempt to throw fists at these echoing thoughts?
How do I battle alone with an enemy I created?
How do I break free from this cage I cannot see

Doors have become portals
Portals to places we have forgotten
Places these weakened feet can no longer recognize
Places this racing heart will lose its voice
Fading in a symphony of forgotten beats

Do you see these new portals?
Doors that react to a touch of our fingers
Not needing hinges to open
Opening to multiple dimensions
Giving a false reality that reality still exists

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