I must be doing something wrong
because I am still here, he says.
He dies every night and wakes
each day in a parallel universe
as ghastly as the one he left:
sickly, dark, dull and hopeless.
His body survives but he will win
in time, determined to break free.
Already dis in tegration
of memory,
a weakness in the knees,
a great
disconnection is
taking place
has taken place
and he can no longer
communicate
in meaningful, comp
licated
sentences
but rather begs
his body to break
let him go
heed
his cry.
There is no point anymore.
No energy. No lure.
Not even the ghost of a desire
to stay, to try
just other people never there
wanting him not to go away
and others, ripe with malice,
wishing him horror after horror
every damned new day
I spite them every morning, he says,
with my first conscious, weary breath
as I crawl from the ooze of the river bed,
make my way back to the dirty shore
and wonder why I must live through this.
