Movement mired through the murk and muck
Muddy boot-prints tracking whereabouts across
Freshly mopped floors
Internal chemistry is out of balance. Like the wavering gymnast, hoping the time runs out before his turn, you stare deep within your own eyes, and feel the anvils harness hold your cheeks and lids.
Suffocation hovers close to every breath. Interruptions glaze their disapproving postures, in such a way, whereas, your tongue is dormant in it’s cavern, unprepared or willing to defend the order of the actions spelt.