2:44 A.M.

Old, gray dreams.

Concrete feet,

sinking dark between oceans.

Colors but shades;

similar but different.

Grays.

 

Darker down,

absorbing sound

in cold indigo pressure

where neither sight, nor smell, nor taste, nor sound can reach.

 

Darker down,

hands fighting stiff, liquid blankets, tightly wrapped and anchored deeper in the black.

There visions emerge,

bright but only halfway whole,

like broken memories;

interrupted signals;

scratches in the disk, jumping, lurching, never closer.

Never really there.

 

Blackest depths,

feet and hands still bound and mouth still muffled.

Punches thrown and never landed,

curses of the deepest deep,

where nothing lives but that which died

and in subconscious sleeps.

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