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hands on my stomach, laying down in my bed my breathing shallow as I start to slip away lost, lapsing, fading, failing that's all that rings in my head
never-ending darkness spread out like a desert in my nightmares the nightingale's voice, the warmth of my blanket, muffled voices from across the room, and the sound of my heart thumping children running and the prospect of melancholy ringing right in my head the clock's ticking away, mocking my every step
as I slow down to catch my breath, I'm reminded that even spring will slip away I reach my hand out to catch these moments, but like winter smog in the daytime, it just vanishes away
the voices get fainter and fainter, as the monster that is my mind finally rusticates I dream with my eyes open; these moments are when I recuperate
