Remission

 

Everything stares back at me,

nameless, grey and solitary.

Nothing moves, can’t lift my arm,

Speech dies on my leaden tongue.

Meaning drains out of the world

as if some frightful plug were pulled.

I rest in my paralysis

to conceal my helplessness,

a moment of absolute stasis,

but I dare not stay like this

or the world will turn to stone

and nothing will ever move again.

The stillness tightens; I struggle in it

like a wrestler at the limit,

silently pushing to break the mould

and, motionless, to move the world.

It is as if time’s spring has slipped

fractions of infinity are infinite,

and so the aeons settle in,

enormous, familiar, smothering.

Then suddenly it starts to shift:

cold iron shutters slowly lift.

I am incredibly set free

by the arbitrary power that held me.

I question nothing, but grasp reprieve

with the hand of one who must believe.

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