First Breath After Coma
Breathe.
Your
hands grasp
cold sheets where
others have lain fruitlessly.
Everything that has lived in this world
comes into your veins, speaking of the duality, the sterile scent
of Death and bleak dusk of Life. All ends have second-hand beginnings. There
is no applause. You remain in cold habitation, watching through the window for when you can run into the wilds of freedom once again. Sluggish muscle atrophy paralyzes
you but you want to run you want to get out you want to breathe the scent of all the phases of the moon turning life into death and death into life and embrace where you are in the world and feel that one day your life will give others life and one day
you will be reborn from your carrion when you take in the Earth as your new home. Every breath feels like a new chance at life from the far reaches of some medicinal curiosity, but you are the toad in the jar filled with formalin that searches with bugged out eyes for an instinctual hope that you are not going to be here for long. You won’t be alive for long here, in a grave not of your own terms. In a
grave that will bring you to a cold sterile room, with cold sterile tools to poke and prod you, to lay you in pressed clothes and remove your organs for your sarcophagus. There is the urgency beeping from your heart monitor. It is going to alert the nurses. One forty beats per minute.
There is an organism here that no longer wants to squirm under the glass, staring back at the eyes of a false god playing life and death with something he does not understand. They don’t understand. Break free of your bindings. Watch the first step. Breathe.
