Epileptic Highway
Powder-dusted coffee tables and rolled up dollar bills.
He kept screaming at me, “Don’t die. Jesus, don’t let him die.”
But my mind didn’t see him, my vision did not recognize.
The clear blue of my eyes, twitched to pearl marbles with twisting
red veins,
A thick ball of choke dwelling in my throat.
Sirens echoed in the distance, approaching but coming too slow.
Fathoms down through spastic neurons, I felt the aching hurt of my
spine
Arching like a dead branch in a dry winter
Not awake, not asleep, thoughts generated telling that I had
slipped through the cracks of reality, moving towards a dimension not even God
himself could know.
Riding the epileptic highway, waves of a weary acceptance that
this was all and forever flashed like surges of violent electricity
Round and round, thoughts flew in the torturous, dark infinity,
Skin turning colder than rime, lips fading to a dead blue.
Depression laced blossoms bloomed like black holes
Grasped by the semi-conscious reality, a play was performed in
front of me, figures dancing around like monkeys from Oz and reaching with
their ominous hands
There was Satan, a frowning God, then a sky of hate and ash parted
and I begged.
Slowly, minions turned into men in fire-proof suits all repeating
my name.
The world twisted upside down and back again where I saw a friend,
crying and whispering, “Please. Please don’t die.”
***
Kyle Rhoads is eighteen but has been writing since the beginning of high school, and now in his second year at the University of Colorado Denver. His major is marketing with a minor in creative writing.
