unmedicated

How to distinguish the syndrome from the soul
Stratospheric hopes and breathless epiphany, the world at his feet
Then buried deep underground: now he must hide from all, even the good,
Which seems to be mocking him.
Nobody rocks him to sleep.
There is no rest in his dream.
Heavy earth shoveled onto his barely-breathing, undead corpse.
He didn’t even remove his backpack.

Buried with his burdens and doubting that morning light, which would come, if he could only
Scream
Surely someone would come to his aid.
Not tonight.

But would he—
If there were a way—
Give up these nightly burials
If in so doing, he also had to rescind his wings?
Trade the possibility of the sky
For the ability to merely
Remain upright on the ground?
Is he no longer he
Absent nightmares and wildfire?

That question, recurring:
What punishments of God are not gifts?
Which things to treat, which things to leave?
The magic pill that dulls his senses
May very well remove his eyes.
What heavy price would he pay
To be out of his pain?

And would it really be free
To, unfeeling, join the middle?
No thunderstorms, no blistering noonday sun?
Would he cease to be he?
Is there any identity without trembling?

God does not answer, and he is alone
Yielding to another night of fitful dreams.