Fragmented words
like crumbed toast
fall,
pulled like lead,
to the floor.

Even cautious steps crackle.

Weary of restless slumber
between sandpaper sheets,
my soul pleads water
but finds dust.

Still
I cling
to hope.

Even when
ears have forgotten how to hear,
eyes have retreated into monochromatic landscapes,
parched mouth has grunted like a great, guttural toad
and feet have stumbled,
I will raise my hands toward your face;
my heart will cry out to you.

Hold me.
Just hold me.

And I will wake
to hear trees clapping with delight,
mountains singing in wild resounding timpanious voice,
oceans bubbling with raucous laughter
and sunshine tingling with melodious jingling chimes.

And I will rise
to see rivers dancing through wastelands,
vibrant colours expanding with breath,
words fledging till they soar,
weaving vigorous vines of flavourful, juice-filled fruit.

I will be stirred
to find a voice of praise
and feet which gambol a dance of unabridged joy.

For you are life
and
I will cling
to this hope.

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