This prickly pallid blue shroud enwraps my flesh,

As pins and needles, poking and prodding in all but the surest moments.
I drag myself on a heavy lead chain and leash, like some wicked mutt;
Everpulling backwards into that old hazy recess.
There are new altars to build,
I’m always designing new gardens for this,
But I fear my aching limbs lack the strength to build.
But I must.
An ever looming moment of clarity, like a wicked grinning moon,
Sometimes holding on isn’t enough, and you must pull yourself back up.