The Panic Tide
The Panic Tide
The pulse begins its frantic drum,
A breathless rising of the tide,
As all the silent terrors come
To strip the peace away inside.
The palms grow wet, the cold sweat breaks,
The color floods a flushing face,
And every tethered muscle aches
Locked deep within this sudden space.
A jaw is clenched, a lip is torn,
The desperate teeth bite down on nails,
As from the throat a gasp is born,
Where every steady sentence fails.
The fingers curl to tight-bound fists,
The hands fling upward from the fright,
While trembling through the limbs persists,
And knees will jerk against the night.
The breath comes shallow, hard, and fast,
A heavy gagging stalls the air,
The body tenses to the last,
And screams aloud in its despair.
In reaching through the blinding storm,
The frantic fingers stretch to find
The safety of another form,
To anchor what is left behind.
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