All you can see is dark stone bricks,
worn ‘til smooth,
by licks.
Lashed at by waste,
and by thought,
your eyes only barely open, if at all.
Only barely,
the darkness, thick like smog,
dripping and chittering all around.
The walls make your mind wander,
wonder, wonder, wonder,
if the wonderful voice will call again.
It’s not long until they begin,
a chorus of hope,
caring cries,
motoring muscles and minds,
trying, aching, to pull you free.
The cacophony grows dark,
twisting the possible plans put in place.
Then silence.
Would they come back,
could they even help.
The walls, like wax,
are winding around you,
around your mind,
round and round it goes.
Will this be the day to move,
to get up and run,
find the path,
illuminated by the light at the end,
above,
behind,
below.
All dark, all at once,
ever so quiet but loud,
it’s ever so hard to hear and be heard.
Maybe tomorrow,
maybe,
then your lost voice will be found.