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.
Toxicology
In suburbia.
