Grave Distress Poem by Margaret Alice Second

Throat burning, molten fire dripping,
winter extracting a high fee for the
desire to live, shrinking existence
to a small point of absolute
discomfort

This dreary darkness, every moment
slanted, almost falling over, pitchforking
emotion annihilating awareness of loving
presence, all sound empty of meaning, all
activity devoid of sense

Lost ability to find my way back, still on the
way down, must reach rock-bottom before the
tide can turn, doing nonsensical things acting as
iron posts in weaving my little story, I am trying
to manipulate

The narrative imperative, seeking a new perspective
on mundane activities, trying to find ways to enjoy
repetitions of things I loved before, the raw state
of my burning throat precluding all success and
when I swallow

I am in grave distress