Short Story Coma

our blood mingles like rain in an ocean,
swimming with Peter to salvation.

when things were much better?
when rain came more slowly
and winter less coldly
and somehow less bitter
the wind blew in whispers;
and She moved much clearer
in grand, sweeping gestures:
one unified nation,
the mirrors unshattered
and fingers uncoiled,
we lay in a bed not yet made
still unspoiled by year after year of missteps and dropped pearls
a jigsaw complete although piled in pieces—
we pasted together a frayed-cornered world
filled with meaning and teaming with everything real—
that one missing thing still unseen and absurd.

Now all the days just run together, like puddles in the rain,
I find myself singing a song over and over again,
It loops and skips, just meaningless static in my brain,
I find myself wondering where joy’s any different than pain
when all this blood pools from the same vein.

And all the veins are tangled and spliced into each other:
just one big heart, all works of art inseparable from another,
every cut wrings the same body slowly dry—
bones broken and crushed and ground to dust by the relentless trod of time.

This once mighty god now toils in the field of thorns he made,
pleading with the wind to rescue him
or at least to slow the rain.