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by Fyn
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2193166
Some thoughts
A strike, an instant.
A tick, a tock.
The second hand moments
'round the clock.

Epiphany; life changes thought--
future rearranged … a shot in the dark.
Chain link decisions, a fleeting look.
Arrow flight hits the mark.

Time stretches, shrinks, collapses.
Lifetime condenses, a sounding shout.
Blurred sound, slurred vision.
Three strikes --you struck out.

Of luck, at midnight:
different ones for different folks.
Of genius, painting broad--
little ones fell great oaks.
Of fortune, at one--
of lightning or a pen,
one at a time
and you think … oh, but then.

The one that will stop you
in your tracks
or paralyze you
flat on your back.

That final straw
that breaks the camel's back--
can freeze time forever--
or get you back on track.

A stroke …

his stroke of good fortune
was an attack on his brain:
warning served.
Venture not there again.

Flashing red lights
to emergency halls--
slow motion camera,
machined beeper calls.

World transmutes
to black and white.
Grainy old movie --
someone else, right?

Injected solutions.
"Reach your family" calls.
Hearts fade to grey
in the midst of it all.

Stop frame moments,
pieces and bits.
Nothing makes sense,
nothing clicks.

Doors swing shut.
You stand alone in the hall
for eons, for seconds?
Impenetrable wall.

Alphabetical tests
one after one
and no answers are given
until all tests are done.

'What if?" becomes mantra.
"He'll be fine," is a prayer.
Silence in chaos.
Need to be in there.

Staccato cadence
to emergency dance;
Three hour window long past;
much less of a chance.

One hundred and eighty minutes
magic time the healers needed.
I didn't know, neither did he--
else warning signs we would've heeded.

Night stretches to infinity,
I hold his hand, cold and still.
Normally, a study in movement,
this quiet terror freezes will.

Can't cry, can't fall apart.
"Must be calm," they say
or I'll need to leave.
Somehow, I find the way.

Three am wander alone, outside.
The rain serves the tears to hide.
Not enough air. We need more time.
I rail, I pray, I scream. I cry.

Night nurse nods as I return,
hands me coffee, pats my arm.
In stony silence I sit and wish
for him to wake and show no harm.

A spark in the darkness
rainbow bright--
doctor says he'll be fine
and once more there is light.

His voice is slurred,
left side is weak--
yet there! Is the smile--
I will always seek.

There's a road to travel,
therapy appointments abound.
But my drummer boy's back
to play another round.

Unmindful, perhaps, of play on words,
"He's had a stroke of luck," they said.
He missed that all important window;
by all rights, he could have been dead.

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