Poezja

My palms are sweating. I’m
dizzy and this sick
feeling hurls me down the rabbit hole.
Lost.
Dazed.
In Darkness.
Turmoil tosses me
just under the ebony waves of
angst and
rage so thick
the smoke furling from the fire chokes my lungs
and burns through my throat turning
my mouth to ash.
Walls closing.
Ceiling crushing.
Everyone is standing to close
to the inferno
blazing, blackening my
twisted guts, mangling my
ragged heart strings.
This is a torture that dowses my nerves with frailty,
pollutes my stomach with acid, then ransacks
my spirit.
Plummeting neck-deep
into the Pit,
the light’s only a tantalizing pinprick. Hardly
real?
Do I sink
through the ashy mud, into the depths
of anxious despair or
climb those slick rocks to freedom?
Choices.