Only a micron between me and the big one,
a thin membrane that keeps me sane or if I
look from the other side,
the membrane that keeps the insane from becoming sane.

Put all your blame on the medical profession who profess profusely to know the cure but unsure of this and not wanting to miss the next update I pick up my bed to walk but find I have to wait and waiting's not a forte for someone over fifty.

We'll all get a placebo to make it seem easier when we go, but we know that it's not, when I tot up the favours asked for and unbidden and find all the days lost that were hidden from me by something or someone unseen it's obscene.

I understand now the sleight of hand and how it works, the peccadilloes and quirks of the people I've met, why I bet the outsider, but not why life has a rider attached like the codicil to a will and will I ever learn that trust is something that I have to earn and yet still give freely.

But I know where and who I am and where I've been and having come to terms with that I can dream peacefully, hopefully for years to come,
unlike some.

When the membrane disintegrates and all trace of me dissipates would the molecules that once were me join up again to commiserate?

I shall wait for the inevitable, but there's one thing for sure, those who thought they had the cure will be waiting alongside me, hypodermics in hand and analysing eternity.