I grab your head tight in a vice as you sleep sedated,

I make multiple cuts deep; past skin, past bone.

I pull back the flaps and climb inside.

Amidst a tangled mess I stand,

wires frayed and disconnected,

terminals cracked and decayed with

gears full of gunk and stuck tight

not moving.

A frown comes to my face, for this

cannot be all there is to you.

You seem to be dead inside, no lights

flicker on the walls to indicate an energy has

ever lived here…but yet I sense something.

A weak rhythmic hum travels into my feet,

as transient electrons skip through you

from somewhere buried deep.

I smile for I see there is hope yet to be had

Something yet lingers.

I set my tool bag slowly down

upon the floor and begin my work.

By Philip Wardlow