Caging in water.
A phantasmal rush
is the ghost
you feed with a fever,
a cold-hearted exaggeration
for fewer thoughts
to consider.
There’s blood,
running far from
its enemy
being the flood
walled within.
Can you correct
yourself, within your
maze of indecision?
Tracks will soon be
all that’s left
to remind you
there had been a road.
Can you scream
once petals become dust,
when your limbs turn to rust?
You speak clearly
when thunderstorms are loud,
but the droplets miss.
You burn brightly
when the smoke hides you
from a mirror.
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