In my Resting, In my Rising

I chase down cures in my dreams,
seeking the open office door,
the present practicioner,
but they’re never there, never open.

Test after trial, trial after tribulation
No solution in sight.
Tablet, pill, capsule.
Needle, scale, survey.

No magic bullet.

There are symptoms, there are diagnoses,
but no cure.
No point of origin to return to and restart.

I want someone to fill this hollow inside –
but the only cure is in there as well.
It lies at the core of me,
but I am so very tired . . .
and cannot wake from this nightmare.

Dosage

A split pill in a shot glass every other night

 

imagesSwinging open the cabinet door,

tired on the nights it’s empty,

still annoyed on the night’s it’s not.

 

A twitch, a shake, tension.

 

A task, another tired tendril pulling me down.

 

I’d stop if I could.

It’d be worse if I did.

 

What’s worse –

The ailment or the cure?

 

An oblong blue missile and its snapped companion.

One and a half ovals.

 

Tiny pale packages with the ability to contain my fears.

And yet, they dissolve and disperse throughout my body.

 

Is the volume the same – just not in a concentrated form?

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