No room for error

My eyes are shut. I am dying, dreaming, agonizing. Myself, seen as in a shadowy scene, cast into the corner, lying in a gurney, bleeding without blood and mangled. As though dead but my lips move to plead for the keeping of my arm as though my ears' burn was greater than the damage of my tabernacle. Not legs, but balls of meat and sinew. Could not my left arm be saved with my right? Both hands in full form, fired my dream as though I were on course to be a man yet!

My eyes are open, large with tears streaming in bursts of mournful foresight. I am living, pacing before God, dying in wonder of the path of his calling. I strongly embrace and resist — of course I would. Will this meat tear in pieces from a dream of God, before the most dreadful choices are even made? I do not know life on this path. A dead man is walking without blood nor limbs to spare; not a man. Yet a man will be, when stripped of all that would be.

The fire ants now consume the meat of what was once man. With a blazing fire whose pain would be unquenchable, he burns them. In tears for himself none are shed, but tears so large the fire must be shielded. For the man once cut, becomes the scalpel to cut himself once more for sake of life, liberty and happiness' pursuit renewed. In the shameful death, seeking renewal.

Now both burnt and drowned, heaping myself in piles that I may be cut in half once more... twice... the count of these future cuts fades as the veil returns on heaven or hell as I am made dizzy from the medication. In this procedure, my waking is incidental, optional, begging an illusion of control. Unseen drugs most aptly can alleviate all symptoms of a life whose outward appearance is too painful, and whose inward appearance may be held forever alone or written in muse or mural.