Naive Faith

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Written on August 18th, 2025 for Edward Ibeh's Pick-A-Title, Vol 54 Poetry Contest 4. Naive Faith.

Claustrophobic, saturated white walls constrict,
sucking the oxygen from every molecule of deprived blood.
Hypoxic cells circulate through an increasingly unstable body,
whilst rivulets of sweat flow from clammy palms.

Insomniac reality blurs with insidious shadows,
dancing upon the ceiling.
Naive faith keeps insanity just at bay,
but with each sunrise, hope is chipped away.

How much longer can a soul survive without respite
before it splits open—
spilling into the realms of delicious delusion?

Counting spots of dust in sunlight streams
now becomes the norm.
Two hundred yesterday—
is that two hundred and four today?

Slowly losing grip,
twisted nursery rhymes play out in a fracturing mind:

One, two, no one is going to save you.
Three, four, get ready for the relentless gore.
Five, six, they will play with your bones like sticks.
Seven, eight, for this occasion you better not be late.
Nine, ten, you are now in their sadistic den.

Praying for sleep, it never comes,
as reality dissolves
and this phantasmagorical nightmare commences.

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