The Depths

In this desolate wasteland of flesh that encases me and the yearnings I cannot begin to accept, there's a rip-roaring tide of spirit that tears open tunnels in the darkness beneath bone. It pushes and pulses with the rage of a wild beast caged. This hatred stems from primal fright so deeply rooted within this being that it disrupts the soil all around it with life blood not yet spilled for how could a thing such as they bleed. How could they find tangible release tearing at the sludge in the midnight hour with bloodied stumps for appendages? I hear them in the stillness of twilight thudding those useless feelers against the sides of the pit all around them. My chest swells with their desperation knowing all too well they wish the walls would collapse upon them. Begging this wasteland, doomed under the crushing weight of entropy's heels, to set the scent of their teary tasting torment alight upon the wind. Only I know the wind will never find them there. We are one in the same in this way. Long forgotten in the depths of our hushed tones and manner of speaking. I was waiting for someone to pass by me in the depths and toss me a rope. Those days breathed their last when I tried to speak and folks huffed at me to spit it out. I learned as a wee thing that the only way free would be born of sacrificial blood encased in my body. I now have bloodied hands that clawed silt made sturdy by the compaction of age. I have tried to dig footholds into the siding of my earthen hole only to feel the heavy downpour of storm overhead drowning me and dashing my hopes of upward motion. Do not waste your breath judging me for lying down to rest. I cannot hear you from up there anyhow.