"The Slow Unraveling"

 It starts in whispers, not in screams,

A stumble woven into dreams,
A hand that trembles, not with fear—
But something darker drawing near.

A phantom weight upon the chest,
A mind that tries but can't find rest,
The words that falter on the tongue,
The battles lost before they're sung.

A thousand fires beneath the skin,
The body's war it cannot win,
Nerves misfire with cruel intent,
A map of pain where strength is spent.

Once simple things—now distant shores,
A walk, a hug, a swing of doors.
Fatigue, that thief, comes dressed in gray,
And steals the light from every day.

It doesn’t kill, it just consumes—
The space, the time, the brightest rooms,
A silent siege behind the eyes,
Where hope still fights, but sometimes cries.

And yet inside, a quiet grace—
A soul that time cannot erase,
Still burning in the shifting sands,
Still reaching out with trembling hands.

So mourn the things that came and passed,
But honor those who still hold fast,
For though MS may twist and bind—
It cannot claim the heart, the mind.