Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Thin tendrils, wisps, around your feet
Rising up, your soul to meet,
Darkening, surrounding frail
Illusions of control
Pulling, constricting, suffocating,
Weight of gravity and black sadness
Draws you back toward the chasm gaping
Til you hang by one finger
Looking up from lowest point
Afraid to look down

1 comment:

  1. Doesn't sound good honey. Keep on looking straight ahead and we are all here for you. Hugs x