Brian Patrick

So isolated
My being feels like lead
groping, groping
my fingers raw with ripped flesh

Rotting, putrid air
Breathing becomes a burden
Walls keep closing in
Dark, dank and musky

The ***** *******
The cunning **** that he is
Exiled me to this earthly dungeon
My sentence to be drawn by death

The constant murky mess
Sludge that seeps in every pore
Without forethought or feeling
Life without touch; death