I saw a man in his prime

shrunken and emaciated,

eyes tinted red and unaware

his whole image stretched out

on a 12-inch screen.

 

“James R. Thornwell died today

of an epileptic fit.”

 

Moments of unconscious

rolled by like white-washed waves

in a black sea.

Up and down, flowing with

the current and then crashing

on sandy banks.

 

Heart beating in a fury,

eyes shocked wide,

fingers embedded into

white sheets as soft as clouds.

 

The sense of touch is lost.

 

“James R. Thornwell died today”

He left the manic depressive

world of floating orange clouds

and transcended

into a plane of floating light.