THE MAELSTROM

THE MAELSTROM

Perilously disease progresses,

Leaving me trapped inside my own body, 

These days the meds are downright shoddy.

The DBS has lost its promise.

The doctors for once at a loss for words.

And I cannot say I blame them

I've had a long time of freedom and grace,

Perhaps it's time to pay the Fiddler.

To look him in the eyes and face.

And thank him for the glorious times I've had

On this amazing race.

Truth be told I have prayed for death, 

If life can get no better than this

Having lost my vigor and my bliss.

And indeed my hopes and plans.

It's hard to admit I have lost the plot

Holding court with hapless hands

Twenty-five years have passed since I was diagnosed

It's a wonder I am still alive, dancing on the earth,

It's a wonder I'm still writing and still somewhat verbose,

Still fighting for life and for all it is worth.

But the strength is somehow leaving me, the will to live has followed,

What little resolve I thought I had left, Parkinson's has swallowed

Still I deign to hang around, for as long as there is life, there's hope

I hang on as I swing perilously toward the end of my rope.

Perhaps I can rally the troops again, though they are tired of fighting.

False hope breeds contempt, and the fires they need igniting.

But I am lost and playing dumb, getting sucked in by the maelstrom. 

Standing in llne, minding the queue, 

Drowning in its sure swift current, witn little hope of rescue.

- Bruce Potts

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