I am trapped,
a dot inside of a circle,
inside of a circle.
Always growing smaller,
more frantic.
The walls become *****,
and I am lost behind them.
Am I doomed?
I ask the vines.
But my voice is not heard,
and neither is theirs.
Stop longing to feel alive,
she tells me.
But why?
Is it because,
the sun no longer blooms?
Yes.
I close my curtains.
The mess grows,
until it consumes me,
grows inside of me.
I could not become the fire.
And so I am gone.