blue mold splattered on the wall,
darkness inundating like dust,

a soft white light painting the scene,
the closest thing to serene,
and yet so far away and faint,

Purgatory, immobility, a throne made of the floor,
seated, seething, seeding on their knees,
the shadows are alive, they are beings,

baptized in the black ocean,
where roars drown the waves,

their fingertips almost succeeding,
poking at the watery grave,

wearing a waterous veil,
proceeded by their monstrous screams.

It is silence, and cold is all you feel,
when you're drenched inside it,
and your pain has become steel.