A Hell Of A Punch

by Roge Slater

Slowly, carefully, one eye looking,

A faint shaft of light shatters the illusions,

Each created by my subconscious.

That one light growing, at first a luminescent blur,

Slowly brighter,

Finally, now,

To a fixed but unfocused bright spot.

Shapes, but not shapes I know,

Just shapes.

Indistinct angles and edges,

Each separated by varying shades of grey.

Some still, some shimmering. Shaking.

Is that me,

Am I moving,

Or am I the only constant?

On my lips, a combination of sweat and blood,

Mine. Stagnant, mixing and congealing.

Not flowing. It’s just there, thickening,

But sparking the senses in my mouth.

Need to spit,

Manage to dribble!

But it was me. I did it.

Trying, softly, I can make a sound.

But can anyone hear it?

Can I even make it,

Or is it a thought sound?

Is there anyone there to hear?

Or just shapes,

Just shadows?

Is it just my imagination?

What can I feel?

Laying outstretched, arms being raised,

Hands moved, ultimately ‘laid to rest’.

Then a mask on my face;

Cool fresh air,

Settling, cleansing,

Firmly placed, controlling my breathing.

Movement, like I’m floating on air,

Lifting and drifting, then laying back down,

Then lifting again and moving away.

Bright lights replaced with darkness.

Then a needle,

A sharp pain,

Like a cold bruise on my arm.

Slowly, carefully, both eyes looking,

Recognising the shapes as people I know.

Talking and calling, to make myself heard.

Smiling and pleased, they welcome me back,

Now conscious,

And aching.

It was a hell of a punch.