Once they are with me I know they belong,
spells when I do what I know I’ve already done.
They start with a memory, where ought to be none,
an onset of symptoms something is wrong.
Then reigns within a split second of grace.
Familiar feelings are stripped of their name.
The marvelous springs from one and the same
utterly common theme I cannot place.
Then some quirk of thought quells my fear,
makes the moment’s scattered parts cohere,
shows behind the hubbub and din there swells
a hum I might be able to hear
if I ceased listening, a drone which dwells
and will still when I disappear.
Poetry by George Lang