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

Even cautious steps crackle.

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

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
I will cling
to this hope.