It's a sink hole that rips through her chest, agonizingly- suddenly aching over her loneliness. A maze of which the walls are made of impenetrable fog, unable to just walk through, unable to find an exit. When her chest tightens, her finger tips get tingly.
Spines shooting through her system, lighting touching down at her finger tips, tornadoes ripping apart her chest cavity. It's when her breath is no longer pumping, her eyes lose focus, the world goes mute- She knows.
She knows she's lost her fight- She'll struggle with ice picks to clamber back- to gain purchase once again. Her cliffs edge long gone. Years had past since she had stood there.
Walls and grooves created by the boiling point that bubbles and pops. She rises and falls with the boiling bubbles- Popping them as flow- Never wanting to overflow. For Lighting storms, and Tornado winds are enough destruction- she does not need Boiling eruption to add to her death toll.
She has yet to light her fullest path out of the it- her path full of rubble and disrepair. She makes steps, sidewinding, and stumbling around and through. Very little light shone within her. Dampened by the impossible walls, all sound and sight drowned out. Her chest tightens at the from the numbness at her fingertips.
A swirl of pain and confusion, conjured by fast winds, sharp strikes, and uneasy standings.
About the Creator
Ria
An aspiring writer- My first time being a open book.
My poetry is emotionally driven and my short stories are widely inspired. I hope you find something in my collection that tickles your fancy. Thank you.
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