Within this pit of poems I am abandoned,
bereft of thought, and will.
The images that once assailed my senses
grow faint and blurry,
leeched of color and pleasure,
fading to sepia,
to black and white,
to blackened void.
Once, they clamored for attention,
but now they only scratch at the walls,
more from reflex than any desire to flee.
I long to escape as well,
but here, among that which I also cast aside,
I realize there are storms in the world above me,
and blood and fire and stone
surround me on the surface.
And so I clear a space to curl in on myself,’
content to sigh and dream,
unfinished,
cast down,
and left to fade
in this pit of poems.
Beyond Panic 