At the Edge of Reality


Mozart or maybe Beethoven
Plays in the background.
The violins sound tired
The flute a little out of tune.

I cross and uncross my legs.
I am nervous.
I am scared.
The door opens
and I lay in the bed.

My eyes close 
in resignation 
While my lungs fill with pain,
As I retell all my yesterdays.
The sweat in my brows
Become a salty moisture
Evidence of my guilt.

I know not what he thinks
Or what he might say to me
But my tongue doesn’t rest
Until the last words are out of me.

I stop.
The room is quiet,
Except for the pen
Scribbling my diagnosis
In a yellow lined paper.

I can picture his hand
Left, I think
Writing mental freak
Or mental maniac
But his scribble is short 
So I conclude
He has merely written crazy.

His feet move.
I open my eyes and stare at his.
I need no assurance.
His look is enough.
The blue eyes of an angel,
With a demonic smile.

I scream,
But it’s in vain
Down the rabbit hole,
I’ve fallen again.


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