Z’s for Mead

Staggering with every step I produce,

This ground has been liquidated to poor use.

It appears that I have stumbled upon an unfamiliar terrain,

One with stagnant growth, where clarity is constrained.

With every stride and motion I intend to commit,

There exists a frequency disrupting the progress,

By restricting the wires of my brain to forfeit,

The conjured thoughts of such a terminal illness.

Victimized by its grip, my chest quickly paces,

I feel coerced to trip over my own shoe laces.

 I do so with grace, avoiding a crash to the face,

Carefully laying this weary state to the stable ground.

The stagger dissipates with a feeble-bearing sound;

Touchdown!

Contact with the floorboards grants rest me for now-

Allowing the blood-flow to slow as I doze out.