The stale air lingers,
Emptiness surrounds his heart,
Death is near, waiting.

The letters, they swirl.
     A word here,
                          a sentence there.
                                             They spin, and they spin.
Every so often,
               one is thrown.
                                                         ­          No placement,
                                    no rhythm,
just discarded.

              From a merry-go-round,
                                         it becomes a carousel.
Quickly advancing,
                                                      ­       into a tornado -
        the disaster thickens.
                                                       ­             Building, and building,
                                                      i­t continues to collect,
               as it tears a path.
No safe way to release,
                                                        ­    all that madness, has consumed.
                                            No beauty to be found,
            in the wake of the aftermath.
                                                      ­No way out of the destruction,
                                                    ­                                   that brews silently.

Do they know, what it’s like?
Visuals emerge, inside my head…

People everywhere, pushing,
No one watching, no one caring.
My throat…closing.
Suffocation. Anxiety.

The noise - there’s too much.

Screaming, laughing, yelling,
It fills every space in my mind.
I have no escape.
Claustrophobia. Anxiety.

They’re everywhere I turn…

Those noticing ask, are you okay?
Everyone looks at me. Stop staring!!
I can’t breathe...something’s rising inside.
Anger. Embarrassment. Anxiety.

There’s no where to go, no place to run.

Questions, Questions, Questions…
Why? Why not? You have to…
The pressure, the force –  it's building within.
Overwhelmed. Ashamed. Anxiety.

Do you really know, what it’s like?

Be thankful you don’t walk,
Even a mile in these shoes.
Because then you might understand,
What it’s like, to have to choose...

Alone in my empty home,
Because I just couldn’t embrace,
A tradition in which family partakes...
No Stampede Breakfast, just isolation.
Sadness. Depression. Anxiety.

Do they really know…..what it’s like?

This chord twanged,
as that chord is plucked.
The bow strikes again.
And again ... and again, still.

The notes, ringing high,
then abruptly, ringing low.
Fervently producing sound;
this one woman orchestra.

Strike, after strike, after strike,
...my finger tips bleed.
Sweating out my soul-
playing this sonata.

First verse, Second verse,
and now the Chorus.
Third verse, Fourth verse,
and again, the Chorus.

Fifth verse, sixth verse,
and then ... the Chorus.
Always coming back,
to the same, old Chorus.

The conclusion draws near,
always the most awaited.
How will it happen?
What will I feel?

She peers out the glass,
at the bright blue sky,
into the sun's warmth...
She is alive, and breathing.

Thoughts flutter, and
images flicker behind
her vacant stare.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Slowly, she begins to ascend.

Her head tilted upwards,
her arms slack at her sides,
as the palm of her hands extend,
welcoming the unknown.

She becomes the center of view,
raised above the plains;
she spins around and around.

Like the wind, softly blowing ashes
from the hot coals of a fire;
her flesh tears away in pieces.

Piece by piece, she is exposed.

As she disintegrates;
her blood drawn by gravity,
spills out like rain drops.

High pitch screams,
fill the ears of those,
close and far.

Screams above mortal pain.
Unlike any torture, the
human body can endure.

Screams that raise every hair;
that stop the heart from beating,
for a second too long.

Screams that cannot be,
labelled or identified.

The world will bare witness;
while in their confusion,
they are still, with feeling.

The faces beneath,
stare above in disbelief;
absolute horror.

The sky ... now empty.
Traces left behind,
in blood.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Abruptly, she surfaces
behind her glazed eyes.

Still peering out the window,
she thinks;* "My life is good."

I have a home; a family.
I have food to eat,
and love in my life.

*Yet, thoughts flutter,
and images still flicker.

The world, the world, the world..
what makes the world go 'round?

Green paper, they claim.
Happiness, I always say.
Perhaps, it's kindness...
What of the blindness?

Turning and spinning,
just who, is winning?
When does it stop?
Who is at the top?

Surely, I am not,
as I sit, distraught.
Begging for strength,
or a shorter length.

This world, My world, Your world..
What makes Our world go 'round?