A malady of spirit has taken up residence
somewhere in the gut.
Its' presence is announced by hollow sounds
and the falter of hands.
Beneath puckered brow, my jaw has tightened.
Clenched. Rigid.
I float on inflated irony, somewhere in the gap between
nostalgia and regret.
Like a flat rock meant to skim the surface...
I've been flung too hard by a lazy grip.
I look towards the surface as sunlight fades from view.

I know now why it's called
'rock bottom'.