A grinding halt, one fragment at a time.
Up front, that fierce direction I might need
consuming days with more than air to breathe.
Instinct to catch the sun, soaking bright light
through glowing skin. The pine to step outside
and wander in a warming morning breeze.
Dark urgency to touch; desire with ease;
it slowly slips away by flawed design.

Eventually, a breath can seem a chore
when every gasp brings aching disregard.
If breathing turns to wasted life support:
who wants a working, anesthetised heart?
To force the lungs to fill and then to fall
seems criminal when lips don’t want to part.