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In your echo chamber you examine the walls
with the only tools that you think you possess.
But your heartbeat’s timing, it rises and falls.
The imaginary structure becomes such a mess.

If only you could reach out and touch what is real.
If only for a moment, to feel.

In your waking coma you are listening in
to familiar strangers at the side of your bed.
They are vultures watching for a flickering lid.
They are judge and gavel for the things in your head

If only you could show them the final reveal.
If only for a moment, to heal.

The mud over your eyes was meant to fall like scales.
It wasn’t meant to hide your life and world in braille.