i seldom write these days.
how can i write when it feels like the weight of my body sits atop ((crushes)) my soul?
words come from the hands, from the brain, from the heart,
but muscles don’t work when they can’t move.

in my dreams ((nightmares)), my legs are too heavy to escape,
my muscles too weak to summit the hill.
i wonder when i’ll take flight.

i am surrounded by a dense fog on most days,
sometimes it wanes, and i can see,
but mostly i’m ensnared.

but soon, baby girl, it’ll lift
and you’ll be free.