A slow crack, rising up through fissures long since left and time thought had healed. Painful sores, ripped open leaving names and words once whispered when the dark came. Now just echoing with disregard to the light.
Drowning might come soon.
There is no peace here, no thought to grasp to stay afloat. Even the wicked words are just mist, damp enough to feel but not enough to fight the feeling of the water.
Drowning may come soon.
Haunted eyes beg not to be seen, but there is nothing left to hide them. No words to soothe them, no touch to keep the soul at bay and off the shoreline of sorrow.
Drowning must come soon.
Here is broken, here is the isle of no. Living here, dreaming here, sleeping here. No escape from the tiring task of living. Every question asked, answered in no. Every answer needed, left hushed, dust filled in quiet mouths with stoic stares. The waterline begins to beckon.
Drowning will come soon.
Soft strings floating in the mist, feel like walking through spiders webs. Caressing as they make flesh crawl, the closest thing to a tether. Holding back what must go forward, like little lies that once held hope.