I cant speak and I cant see
Prison is my memories
Spiritual epiphany
The rivers of red running inside of me
Socially and physically
I am a stingless bee
Or the snail inside the garden
Chewing on my precious leaves
Trapped inside my poetry

I need to harvest life's rewards
Before the harvester harvest's me
No one but cowards can afford
To harvest life so infrequently

How illness can so sharply halter
As distance tends to put asunder
Poetry and medication
Have led to total desperation

So as my days continue to number
The chaotic clock of daytime slumber
My life will never be complete
All sorrows sleeping, yet still no peace