Old, gray dreams.
sinking dark between oceans.
Colors but shades;
similar but different.
in cold indigo pressure
where neither sight, nor smell, nor taste, nor sound can reach.
hands fighting stiff, liquid blankets, tightly wrapped and anchored deeper in the black.
There visions emerge,
bright but only halfway whole,
like broken memories;
scratches in the disk, jumping, lurching, never closer.
Never really there.
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.