PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He was shaken like a stray marble in
an iridescent cube, its sides smeared with
his sweat from every broad collision. His
body withered and spread, the mask upon
and covering his face could do little but
press into his teeth, drawing grasps,
and slice into his cheeks. Blood curdled
and clotted on gums. Worlds turned red
slowly, as if filled by the visceral sand
of some disturbed hourglass. In his depths,
he could feel a vile humming that sought
to eject his soul through his throat and eyes.
His prison square was clear and faultless in
its clear and vibrant shape. Infrasound
did reign inside like a chorus of ants beneath
his skin, crying in unison as they bit into him.
There was weight to the air of its innards;
as if the drunks controlled the way you breathed,
or the passage of your legs and feet, the way
you speak and flail at sights you do not understand,
or where you tend to land. But balance had no reach,
and as he broke and shattered thus, the tossing set to
ceasing, and stopped, and limped - discarding him
to lay in heaps of something that once resembled man
on a newly-calmed surface which had yet to crease.
He sighed and resigned to death or sleep, which,
either sounded fine. He'd survived, he'd thought. Maybe.
Knowing required too much of him right now.