Short breaths. Quick breaths. Trapped in a metal box, sealed shut, you can see where the welding's been done. No place to move yet travelling fast. Shipped somewhere. Cold breaths. Hard breaths. Have I been forgotten here? By someone?
Opus in Shout n°4 Banging at doors for a tired ear, a few clinging words to which hold the last thread of my sanity.
I can only hope to be the sky, and rain my only relaxation. For each tear in the fabric of my space might be a reason why I choked up.