tips of my fingers
the dominant hand
no longer understand
the language of the familiar
little bruises dot
the back of them
spasms tweaking at
the thumb
its as if they would speak
but are unable
middle of my leg
no longer bends
I lift my foot
so I can force
it into my socks and pants
the knee being useless
the thigh often
cringing in a twinge
of cascading pain
visiting me at night
again and again
why this happens
no one has yet to understand
nor give explanation
I do not dance
I do not run
I do not walk far
I do not have the kind of fun
I once had
everything I do now
reminds me of what I can
no longer do
I know I'm a human being
but I'd rather be doing too
I am an artist
I am a writer
I am a lover of people and animals
and a good friend
when I write
I write to understand
but I am failing
how I'm failing
is that I cannot create
an illustration for my heart
of how and when
all of this will end
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