The sensation has vanished,

touch no longer has a hand;

connection is diminished,

I now understand.


Eyes have become the vehicle,

that steer us to blindness;

we’ve forgotten how to ride the bicycle,

to our own divineness.


Senses are secondary,

with a life surrounded by objects;

stimulation is primary,

and we are the prime suspects.


Expression is compromised,

our hearts no longer dictate;

our interests sterilised,

our voice a touch too late.


Slow to smell the roses,

fresh sweet perfume;

but time is wasted on social poses,

and we are unable to resume.


Life is a mirror,

our reflection today’s picture;

what I am I struggle to deliver,

and taste the sweet nectar.


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