An Inflammatory Condition
Hours nibble at a back strain.
Tenuous strings were pulled
lifting water bottles.
You wonder how weak and fragile
you are. How vulnerable to
these ancient red tides within
that can bend your iron like plasticine,
turn you into a crooked question mark.
The body is quartered by straining horses,
a torture of disruption
condemning the spine to the wrenching rack.
After the sudden blind attack
sharp incisions tear apart and spasm,
keep you shuffling into dark corners
where ghosts groan over their
twisted bones.
Crab-walking time whittles away
at your shrunken being.
You feel as if you are bottled by water,
a sloshing on a rocking skateboard,
wakes crash - splashes of awareness
witnessing a sudden fragility,
the awkward creaking of your soul
being stretched too taut
on its desiccated elastic band.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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