My Own Particular Madness

Spiralling away in a snail shell descent, the retreat is on.
A reversal to purgatories lost; misfortune abounds in this hole,
this depth of darkness I realise I must travel.
Timorous, I dally with a foot on the ledge praying it a dream;
it is not a dream; no dream could be so real as to fake cold, hard steel.
One foot at a time, one heartbeat after another,
I move in slow motion without moving at all.
Madness. This is madness. But it is my own particular madness,
my own particular brand of non-release; I know that now.
I shall never truly escape that which I would wish to,
only hide for short periods with my foot hovering,
gliding across that nightmare pause, that procession to death.
And no matter how many words I write, no matter how many worlds I create,
I will never create one where this staircase does not exist.
It is in my gullet, and I carry it everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.


6 thoughts on “My Own Particular Madness”

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