Sometimes I Write Stuff That is ~Not Poetry~

She falls into the abyss, twisting flailing
No bottom to land on, only endless grey mist in every direction.
Fingers too heavy to lift scrabble at empty air
No toehold, no hint of help from anywhere

In her head the voice doubts the grey her eyes insist is there
Beyond the walls which don’t exist voices tell her she floats in the light
She strains to see it, and convinces herself there is no darkness instead.

No cushion can ease the exhaustion
More than bone-deep, it stems from her soul.

Shut down, repair and reboot. The cycle rolls on.


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