Beneath the Surface

Beneath the Surface

There’s a quiet man, a man that no one knows. He whispers hoarsely as emotions ebb and flow, haunting every moment— he has nowhere else to go.

He wanders aimlessly in the dark, hopelessly chasing a fleeting spark that once spoke to him. He screams silently, hands raw from clawing at the walls inside of me.

Now he feels too tired to walk, to eat, to sleep, to breathe. He curls up in the darkness, cold and alone. His mind still wanders where his aching body cannot go.

He thinks of death and what that might be like. His lungs choke on smoke, his liver drowned in drink. It’s dark inside; all he can do is think.

Images of better times— laughter echoing in sun-bathed rooms— gone within a blink.

He imagines skating on a frozen lake. The ice breaks. He sinks.

The smoke that filled his lungs is replaced with water.

There was once a time he would claw his way back to the surface.

Skin cold as ice,  yearning for the warmth of the sun.

Lungs aching—  for another breath.

A body,  a man,   not ready to be finished.

But all he can do now is

sink…   sink…     sink.

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