claustrophobia

This place is blank
full of stillborn desires
created in a dreamer’s apocalypse
that left nothing behind

Asylum-atic rooms with round walls
no windows – no doors
the perfect isolation
we’re only here with ourselves

I breathe in my own death
and exhale promises undelivered

You couldn’t pay me to dream
of something better
when the price tag is always too high
and adrenaline doesn’t breed escapism
the blood coloured finger paint
unseen on the curves
of this room that spins
but never moves beyond
this place and space

© Indie Adams 2015