It’s like suddenly being sieged
by black water holding you down,
with one fist around your chest
and another shackling your rest.
So when you finally give in to suffocation.
Smothering screams of molestation.
Crows pecking your burning mind
while you crouch by the window,
waiting for dawn to rush in
and save the day.

Your door is bolted with iron locks
shutting out persistent, saintly knocks.
But your window on the seventh floor
knows the allure of breaking apart.
Letting you try unseelie wings:
freedom without heartstrings.
So why does that sobbing ghost,
pleading by your locked door,
still hold enough ectoplasm
to keep your body safe
but your mind insane?