Watching as the day drags its light
Like a caterpillar
Across the small, dark room.
Though even on the brightest days,
Even when the day is at its pinnacle,
The room is shrouded in shadow.
Only late afternoon,
When the sun’s tongue flicks
In between the gaps
In Brighton’s buildings,
Blinding each one awake,
Does it make each particle visible,
Each vivid and known.
Then, just as swift, it vanishes
Leaving both the room and I
In our own shared
And individual darkness.

It’s not the pain, as some might think,
Nor even missing life,
Though that is far more painful,
But being made useless, purposeless,
The mind is willing and spirit strong
But the body…
The body lays here underneath
The caterpillar that creeps,
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Have I rested you enough?
Will you let me write again, give joy again,
Support and hope again?
(Despite these very things becoming so slender in this bed and room)
Will you let me create
And use these limbs of fire and ice?

For should the answer be no,
No matter how faint the voice,
I’ll ignore it.
No matter how loud the voice,
I’ll let my limbs scream above it,
No matter how long the time spent,
Truly spent, waiting,
Like so many living in such an altered world,
I’ll rise again
For the spirit is stronger.

Victor Frankl once said
That there must be meaning in suffering.
There must be,
Even if only to carry this weight
For an unknown soul,
So that they will not have to carry it
Live it, bare it,
In the loudest sense.
Perhaps this is a purpose,
Perhaps there is no purpose at all,
Perhaps, like the vast shadow that envelopes the room inside this chrysalis
It is instead waiting for me
To grow wings again
And fly.

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