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Spirated Self-Containment
And again he went, swirling around
The same attacks his mind could sound.
He sits in light and cowered within,
He drowns in the lives he will not lead.
And with spirit compacted to naught but hope
What will is there to rise?
This push and pull tears the mind;
Pushed further into the sunken groove
In a mattress just short of a lid,
And pulled by the fear of dormancy;
The sporadic screaming of shame.
For with his time and with his mind
The wrong foot has waged on untested.
Where time must be filled or it turns on him,
And his mind must be satiated by distractions;
Stories upon stories of a world to inhabit
For hours within his day.
"Reprieve," he screams, but reprieve from what?
How to escape one's self?
For when so desperate for a foot in the right direction
One won't be taken at all.
