Radiated mind

I painfully limp towards a pile of poetry buried in dust,

Devouring words and lines

Like the bittersweet intoxication of a spinal tap;

To feed a brain long dormant

For three months in a hospital bed.

 

To awaken the poet that almost died,

Words wither away and sentences snarl imperfection.

Nocturnal witching hours are spent in pursuit of creativity,

Hopelessly.

I had the word! And now it’s gone,

In the fuzzy, indistinct chatter of air-conditioning vents.

 

Claustrophobia.

A plastic mask clasped me during cranial radiation,

Like an implacable pillow in the hands of a killer.

A tight white prison

For technicolor sensibilities,

Banning any muses from melting through.

 

My mind is nothing without my art.

And to escape from the eternal facade,

I present to you this plea for a poem.

An excuse, a ruin.

Read more by Bassam here.