Concussion

Breathing itself is a luxury. Everything
else is absurd.

To fall in love is a windfall.
A sunset glimpsed—an endowment
divine.

To feel anything is a gift beyond
the capacity to “deserve.”

Godforsaken, miracle forgotten,
we cry about our tears.

Sanctity rediscovered, tears become
heaven, “hell” the bedevilment of
a blindsided soul.

Come to your feet, and your senses,
my concussion-stricken counterpart.

See the gift that we’ve been given,
to feel anything at all.

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