I grope towards me, but cannot seem to reach.
My soul sometimes seems put up on a shelf
Where from the box my insides slowly leach.
I want to think, but when I try I grind
Like gears too long un-oiled or unused.
There is an awful jamming in my mind
Where what was understanding is confused.
I used to leap from thought to thought with ease
Where now to say I plod would be too much;
A keyboard doesn't work with sticky keys
Nor do I think. I can't release the clutch
Enough to even settle in a gear.
Even reverse would be relief from here.
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