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
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