All his senses
hyperactive.
Eyes open, fixed on a light, blue chair.
The black-coated people, silent companions to him
in the office.
He is half inside
full of flesh on the outside,
believes he is indestructible.
The words, that fly out of his mouth
chewed up, broken like his soul,
broken down to mgs of clozapine.
Lack of sleep, the benzos failed to work.
REM cycles are out of stock
and alternatives are unavailable.
The living nightmares are his companions;
in his eyes a blank stare of someone
lost.
He looks around for a couple of
seconds as if he does not listen to
the questions, he is being asked.
He open-closes his orbits
rapidly in a mors-code fashion
to someone out of sight.
The family he never had,
he created in his mind.
From loneliness they protect him,
the voices never leave his
side.
Phone rings, the alienist answers.
I leave my notes to the side and
observe his movements.
For a moment
he turns towards me,
appearing emotionless,
then looks back.
Rain pouring on thirsty soil,
cats meowing free
outside the white-walled cages.
'The building (opposite this white hole we are in)
is it a new build?' he asked looking through the
window.
Flight of unlinked thoughts;
from electromagnetic fields
to dealthlessness.
No gun can **** him,
no family there for him.
The brother, he forgot
and no recollection of
the court order that put him
behind bars.
The TV box inside his head
always on, playing a movie on repeat.
A medicated, anhedonic protagonist
on a road of no return.