Pressure
in the moldy dank depths
of my thoughts
in the cellar of my
imprisonment
the prison of my mind,
my thoughts,
hope flits like a moth’s wing
against the scorching glass
of my lamp of light ,
my light of hope,
my lightness of being.
yet the darkness sits like a weight
- an entire house above
the cellar
and seals in the dampness
and squeezes
it out of my eyes
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