Chemotherapy

Yesterday I was fettered,
my tiny world rotating around me,
all smiles and reassurance.
At its axis, just me and this toxin pump,
each pulsing chemical a name longer,
less pronounceable, than the last.
A cocktail of drugs to target alien cells:
some like some guided missiles,
programmed with coordinates;
others designed to combat side effects.
All weighted with the lexicon of battle.

Today I am untethered, cut loose.
I float, vaguely aware of distant light,
of oceans and rainforests,
ice-caps and urban sprawl,
of the possibilities of birdsong.
The world beyond my orbit calls to me,
bright and beguiling,
its horizon just out of reach.

All else is black.