Mechanical clouds,
the pendulum to the pit,
sink lower and lower.
Since I was born,
the threat of water has
been as a canopy above me.
My diving gear is holey.
Everything breaks down
with a promise of pain.
My lungs will fill as sponges,
and then there will be
the catharsis of pressure,
the implosion as the
weight of water lays on me
like caramel on whipped cream.
Forgive me if I’ve already posted this. I don’t mean to spam you. I lost my place in my document and I’m not sure exactly where I left off.
Miniature Moon 