I am still,
but I move; in my head,

I see,
but blind are my eyes that hold me back,
like my arms and my feet; motionless with an action,
a constant relaxation that stresses my free will for demonstration,
that I am more than a carcass with a soul; frozen in unfinished creation,
my only elation the twitch in my lips,
from the small breath of air flowing through me,
the only sensation besides the sour and sweetness upon my tongue,
an infiltration of liquids into my body,
not by my own hand am I fed,
but in my mind there I hold an appreciation,
for at least someone to take pity on this seemingly lifeless preservation