Strained eyes are lost, smouldering ash.
Transparent silver glazed skin.
Limbs as rigid as bone.
Voices speak to me, voices of sin.
Iced breath rises like steam.
A deathly grip, locking flesh tight.
A wildfire alights my chest.
This insomnia’s lustful whim is with night.
Thoughts recycled, not nearly new.
Lost in the labyrinths of time.
The prism of light disperses,
But I am still colour-blind.
Copyright © Michelle Beck | Year Posted 2015