She walks slowly through the deserted hallway.
The only sound she hears is the drum beat chorus of her racing heart.
There's no where to go but straight into the menacing darkness ahead,
unable to retrace her steps into the fading light of the past.
Her fingernails claw for a foothold in the smoothness of her cage,
as if groping for the resolve to stop her descent into inescapable
nothingness.
Her mind,
like a puppetmaster,
plays tricks of deception,
rendering her helpless and unable to trust herself,
and like a jackal,
tripping her,
merely to watch with satisfaction and glee as she pathetically falls to the
muddy earth time and again.
She's trapped inside herself,
murmuring whispers of imaginary purple clouds and frolicking, invisible
creatures.
Her reality is our surreality,
her tears our shortcomings bottled up to sell,
her trembling our destruction by the hands of our one true weakness.
Her mind has been savagely raped by unseen entities,
her heart exploded in her chest long ago.
Pretty things are her only saviors now,
glimpses of the light,
places where the shadows can not reach.
Yet, rampant, the darkness consumes her,
and she silently and reluctantly relinquishes.