Imagination

“Take this pill,” the medicine man said when the moon was overhead,

“Strike me dead if it doesn’t make you young and full of pep again.”

 

I believed his words because; diplomas hanging on his walls put me in awe

of how accomplished he was, so I took the pills to be young again.

 

Instead, they put me into a stupor for a month or more. One day I awoke and my head was clear, but what I treasured more than anything, had disappeared.

 

Before taking those pills, something within spoke to me throughout the day, not in words,

but in thoughts that turned everyday objects and happenings into heavenly moments of joy.

 

I could write a story or a poem anytime I put a pencil in my hand, and always had an ending that twisted and turned and spurned the main theme, like a dream to the reader’s eyes.

 

I’d see colors so bright, they’d blind anyone else, and music of any kind filled me with joy before those pills killed God’s gift to me. Is it worth staying alive now that the best part of me is gone?

 

Before that part got lost, I enjoyed my own company more than any others. I was free to think and design, whatever my imagination sent my way. It was my best companion and friend.

 

I wanted to stop the pharmaceuticals but was told, “Take them for the rest of your life or you’ll die.”

 

As I lay in the dark, I cannot see what choice to make, because my imagination has died and without it, I cannot see or hear things that are beautiful to me.