Soporific, transient images float; <br />the shooting pain keeps me vivid <br />as Delauney, except my palette is <br />pain not paint. The limp head hangs <br />like an adolescent on a saturday. <br />My shoulder hurts. <br /> <br />I am lost in the corridors of my mind; <br />there are no signs left; <br />the handles have turned to dust. <br />My mental vending machine is empty now <br />except for the pain bar and the packet of agony. <br />My shoulder hurts. <br /> <br />Outside the window a man is mowing gravel; <br />Shall I look? Can I move? <br />I smash the glass and blood appears. <br />But there is no blood! <br />Then why is my vision smeared? <br />My shoulder has fallen off.<br /><br />Cornelia Ceilings<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-broken-shoulder/
