done before starting

if i let my fingers fly like birds, will i arrive at an open door, step over the frozen threshold, pass from ice to fire and feel a subjective something that can overwhelm the numbness that is inside me?

am i still capable of making love to the ghosts that vibrate my bones, the traumatic pimentos that torment me in dreams, divert my intention in wakefulness, sending deep bass notes down my spine until i'm lying in an embryonic heap on the couch, knowing nothing?

i've become perverse because i've lost the will to live, it's that simple. the broken pipes of my organs sing obtuse songs or they don't sing at all, as pain pounds through me like a pom pom pom drum and my mind goes blank in the fog of war, the guerre perpetuelle that i am fighting and losing.

no this is not a poem, it is not a feeling, it is just another bit about living with pain, and i'm oh so very tired. it's not a game i play well. and then... the numbness, the fog, the slow fall into snow over and over.

and the poem is done before it's started.