Weak and vulnerable.
Rivers flowing behind the eyes, and in the chest a sea. And the sea is never full.
An undulating surface. Depths and darkness and suffocating enclosure.
A place that expands from the inside out, with walls that never move.
Desperation and pity and collapsed possibilities.
A flimsy coil of smoke rising from its own darkness, reaching and grasping.
An abyss reflecting itself, and regretting the inevitability of the gravity it sheers between itself.
Sparks of hope glittering. Sparks forever encapsulated and drowned by the relentless fuel of waters so tired of time.
Moonlight shadows of prison bars strong as iron, in the form of an atmosphere, in the form of an ocean.
Pits displaying perpetual, discursive tumbling routes to nowhere.
A flooded room shrinks awareness into the small space between crashing waves that choke, and a callous ceiling that traps.
Falling rain, a silent torrent of quicksilver that pours from an aperture of regret and what is.
No where to go and no where to breathe.
