The Well
It’s like falling into a deep well
the sides coated with mud, excrement
unable to climb the surfaces
to find a way out.
In its own peculiar way
it becomes comfortable,
but not necessarily soothing –
it’s what is known,
a sensation experienced
time and time again.
I can spend hours, days
not seeing a soul,
locked behind bedroom doors.
a prison I have created for myself
like falling down an empty elevator shaft.
I know this state of mind,
a blackening of greys
where what was crisp and clear
is now clouded,
a muddling of the senses
or an acuteness
of internal worlds gone awry.
Shadows speak in tongues
their message I believe to be true
and ultimately in languages
only I understand.
The voices pull me south
to nether regions
emblazoned in crimson fire,
the heat scalding my self-esteem.
Scar tissue mends overt wounds,
the damage permanent
no matter how I manage
to find my way out of this jungle.
I welcome rescue
but the longer I lunge
into acid pools,
the closer I am one
with my melancholy
conjoined like two sides
of the same coin,
burnt, blistered skin palpable.
Autumn weeps plum and tangerine
but I am lost in a deep freeze;
winter lives in my heart.
Can you please
help me out of this mess
before I lose control of self
and become an array
of molecules lost
to time and space?
I know there is an exit ram;
it requires work I resist,
but completed tasks are necessary
to become whole.
For now, at least
hope seems elusive.
seeking comfort in an oncoming train
that will flatten my mood,
pulverize my body
make me feel nothing
but freedom...
