When my son, David’s psychiatrist decided that there was no more that he could do for him, they suggested that we check him into a sanitarium of sorts. I visited the place the following day and simply could not imagine my son there. I was not prepared to give up so easily. There had to be help for him somewhere out there. When I returned home, this is what flowed from my fingers onto my computer;
Time weighs on them heavily
as they sit in the sun.
Their only sign of life, the occasional blink
of their vacant, staring eyes.
Do they still dream?
Those shells of healthy youngsters
whose minds were snuffed out
in their prime by an illness,
apparent mostly to those it touched.
S c h i z o p h r e n i a.