Gravity pulls her head down into the pillow.
Like tar through a garden hose, thoughts flow.
Thoughts weighty, not freed of mass and matter.
As stuck in time and lost to reason as the Hatter.
Thoughts arise because they’re lighter than air.
Hers fell sodden, a lead balloon in the state fair.
The infection arose from a single putrid notion.
One drop floating free to fester across an ocean.
That she wasn’t enough. Enough for whom? Enough for what?
Unanswerable questions that congealed into a sluggish pus.
They say truth has weight, but truth lifts one to fly free.
What pulled her head to pillow was the mass of negativity.
As her thoughts hardened into a slag, devoid of truth or reason.
She summoned the strength for a search in her final season.
She scoured the four corners of the Earth for a fabled cure.
But it lie in a place close at hand, but vastly more obscure.
By B Gourley in Emotion, mind, poem, Poetry on February 11, 2017.
