By day five
your mind has reverted
to a test channel out of signal–
there should have at least been some colors
but instead you’re left with static,
the visual sensation of a limb gone to sleep.
There is a slow haze
shuddering down the length of you,
and you have written masterpieces
you cannot recall the names of
while you shake your vision
back into your skull
from where it wandered off
with the cursor again.
Your knees buckle as you try
to stumble back to the living,
but it’s too late,
you’re out of minutes–