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;
Contact with the floorboards grants rest me for now-
Allowing the blood-flow to slow as I doze out.