I have lost all sense of my hands
Everything they touch is unfelt
And unkind
The contortionist of my mind
It is like the sun on closed eyelids
A fear of what you feel instead of see
A fear of the hairy arachnid
Behind the tree
A fear of me

Why is the abstract mind an afterthought
Sometimes I fight to see what’s behind physical existence,
What is there, inside,
To see inside, behind the eye,
Behind the mind
Bellowing out
Unfound, untied
Unbound to those who try


What about: I am; therefor I think?
Though a thought can be a hinderance
It can also be a seed
A garden unweeded
That wields, and grows, and feeds.