... a writer after illness

i came out of my room
on gentle footsteps
and heard the fragments of me
making noises inside

a strange curiosity shoved me back into the room

silence fell

the legs were found inside the trousers
hung despondently from the hanger

the left hand was set tight on the forehead
and right hand pressing a motionless pen

i had left my eyes months ago
in the half-open pages of Waiting for Godot
i glimpsed at them and their tired eyelids
dropped

quite amazed

to find my stomach begging morsels of air
from the dust-dotted ceiling fan

and silence laid on the medicines
squeezed foil
and the finished disc inside CPU
power rolled on its mercy

i shuffled myself once again,
collected all cut-outs
and came out

only what i left without, within,
only what i forgot to take with me
was some raw flesh that echoed my Mind
as remnant