The walls are breathing with my scattered mind,
I count the cracks, then count them all again.
The door is locked, but only from inside.
Each thought returns, the tethered and confined,
They loop like echoes pulsing through the brain.
The walls are breathing with my scattered mind.
Each hour bleeds into the one behind,
I mouth the words I swore Iād not retain.
The door is locked, but only from inside.
My hands recall what sight has long maligned,
They scratch at truths I cannot quite explain.
The walls are breathing with my scattered mind.
I know the truth, though truth has been unkind,
It turns and turns, a slow, familiar chain.
The door is locked, but only from inside.
The faces blur, the voices realigned,
I am the cage, the captive, and the chain.
The walls are breathing with my scattered mind,
The door is locked, but only from inside.
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
Let your becoming be louder than your fear, and your smallest steps become the road you once thought impossible to walk. An Appalachian poet and cookbook author my book Beautiful and Brutal Things is on Amazon, Link š
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