My flesh is a shell,
And I the soul that inhabits it.
Yet the soul is not attached—
It is merely enclosed within
The soft shell of flesh.
I drowse—I dip—
My head lolls in fatigue—
I bolt awake, the flesh snapping—
A moment of disconnect
As the soul still lingers
Just two inches to the left.
Woozy, disconcerting, normal
After many years.
Normal, but not admired—
Gentle heavings are not uncommon
As the soul attempts to escape
The prison walls of flesh.
Pain is felt twofold:
Once in the heart of the soul,
Once in the chest of the flesh.
Surreal, this overlay
Of soul and flesh.
But one becomes accustomed to it
After many, many years.