Gasping

Mouths gasping,

caverns gaping.

-

The world swallowed whole,

rotting in its tight wooden box,

-

bloodied knuckles,

-

a dust pile

gradually accrued.

-

Cave paintings,

jagged but gorgeous,

you once lived that life,

-

but instead

nowadays

you feel

at the precipice

of a ravine

-

removed from safety itself,

dangling, suspended just

an inch above the clasping

hands of murky grief.

-

The sea’s waves cut at the body like

the cold slap of a mother,

-

and time remains a relative

you just can’t see eye to eye with,

-

the strings which puppeteer your life

are starting to fray now,

-

but you’re frightened,

afraid of the freedom you chased for

so long.

-

The skies darken, the beat is bludgeoned,

the ground is slowly opening up

-

and you wait, frozen

neatly into place

-

unsure what exactly the next step should be

because your history dictates that all risks

meet brick walls,

-

that you’re merely a plaything

soon to be discarded by

colossal and

skeletal hands,

pre-occupied with gathering

aces,

-

exiled and left

bleeding,

-

gasping.