Repeated Movements

As my hands repeat the same movements throughout the day
My mind is occupied so far away.
Machines and industrial fans and radios, grinding, roaring, wailing
Mean that the movements of my mouth are unremarkable.
Five people sing five different songs each unheard above the ambiance of the setting.
My voice is not singing.  
I rail against the world and myself.
I fight a battle against my history that I can never win.
I stand in my own defense against the ghosts who still live.

Those ghosts whose hearts still beat and insist that persistence is evidence of my guilt.
My presumption to survive is enough to convict.
In myself every disaster ever known, fire, flood and quake, war, famine, genocide
exist as a matter of routine such things yet beyond my influence or experience.
I'm so fortunate to have my life,
but I am told to relax so often that acceptance must not be a natural state.

Still my hands repeat the same movements throughout the day.
Still my mouth moves out of synch with the radio.
Still my mind tells me to maintain a semblance of sanity.
Still my mind tells me to fake it, never admit my dementia.
Still I tell myself that not everything I've ever done is wrong.
Still I tell myself that I will outlive those ghosts whose hearts still beat.

I remember that people confronting their demons have succeeded.
I'll draw from the strength of those who have lived darker lives and found lighter planes.
A day, an hour, a minute, a second at a time.

In my mind I scream, I strive to regain my former tenacity,
I hurt myself to vicariously attack those who would destroy me.
In this frantic violent insanity
My hands repeat the same movements throughout the day,
as I repel attacks from those ghosts whose hearts still beat.