Something inside is broken,
Crushed by life,
And its many minions called disappointment, favouritism, unfair treatment and bad luck.
Spirit has bent over,
So much backbone has cracked,
Spirit walks on crutches.
And sometimes a borrowed wheelchair.
The irony is the spirit is so broken it doesn’t have the spirit to heal,
To walk again on upright feet.
On the surface, things are working,
Movement is fluid.
Brain functions like a scratched record,
Pausing for hours or minutes on one bit unable to move on to the next sequence, next scene.
Heart it runs,
But it doesn’t have the steam,
The power to dream,
To co-ordinate with the brain to create dreams and maps on how to get there.
Something inside is broken, enslaved spirit, scratchy mind, powerless heart.
Something’s not right but there’s no will to fight.
Broken.
