Vacancy

In the avalanche, I lost track of my guiding light. I fled my fireside. I had to evacuate my homestead. Driven far astray by frenetic frozen fright, I was just a cowardly racing rescuing airhead. The wounded wooden face of my brother lugged away by paramedics in a wheelchair. My tomb of sleep was my 3 am druthers. But I called 911, puzzling at my sibling’s stare. Living and dying from underworld to mountaintop, the EMTs raised him off the floor like a bag of potatoes. Everything was breathing pollen and allergen nonstop. All my raw instincts lacked right or wrong thought flows. It’s true; I lost poetry. I abandoned my paintings, my pottery, as though the subverting season of AI sophistry reigned supreme, as though all creativity was randomized in a human lottery, as though all consciousness is reduced to a particle beam. Vacant, these weary eyes roll up in my head. Vacant, how much long-term despondency to endure? My brother lives and dies each day in his bed, defenseless, like a never healing wound with no cure. My days are distractions, a mad confusing deflection. I vacated my poetic home, my fireside muse. I raft the unfamiliar caregiver currents without reflection. I can’t live forever homeless, maintaining the caregiver ruse. Sleep now, my brother, knowing life offers you another aim. Tap resilience from your broken body. This will clear your mind. My pallet for tending, nourishing, and wiping deserves no acclaim. Nobody asks for these duties. No one can ever put them behind.