Rancid

Those future events

so small in the distance

push rapidly closer

as though you're laying

upon the cold steel of

wet train tracks,

the lights closing in,

the tracks abrasively humming.

And 

despite that approaching closeness,

dreamlike,

you still feel so distant.

Your lethargic body writhes around its

small spaces,

trapped and yet adrift in this vast,

unending universe.

She grips you tight,

sometimes,

but you melt into a liquid

impossible to grab,

you morph into sand

slipping through her skeletal fingers,

dissipating into distances,

obscured by blackening clouds,

lost within yourself, 

lost without yourself.

Your rancid reality

feels like a tight prison,

your fantasies nothing but

a black, acidic poison

the blood gathering, painfully,

at the centre of your chest,

your burning awareness that

something must change

like a wicked pang

of brutal emptiness.

Nothing connects anymore.

Sparse sounds, coarse words,

it's all so abrasive,

the blinding sun

corroding its way into the room,

blinds on fire,

spreading slowly now,

unwanted as the day on which

you were born,

when the stars aligned 

and the Gods cried

lamenting what they'd done,

regretting the sparks

if they even noticed them

at all.