Unopened letters carpet an unpolished wooden floor
where before only dust lay behind the door
now junk mail and flyers tell of their wares
and the odd calling card expresses someone cares.

The telephone rings: but she dare not speak of her woes
nor answer when "strangers" knock or the doorbell goes;
her mind locked into paranoia as she waits in the dark
music cranked up to cancel out the neighbour's dog's bark.

She does not wash one day until days turn into a week
and with taste buds deadened, she often forgets to eat.
Sleep, like a narcotic, lures her to find some escapism
but it battles with psychosis which in turn searches realism.

Counting away no longer soothes her agitation as far flung
visions camouflage her walls where once artwork hung,
now replaced with distortions and variations of belief;
she struggles with shaking hands to pop pills of relief.