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white waters of static wash over me.

i breathe,

unable, however, to take in breath;



the air, thicker and darker than

these imposing walls,

invades my lungs

like icy soldiers with bayonets.



wandering these corridors

that shift and teem—

this house, shrinking…growing?—

a doppelganger of my own psyche?



moving faster

yet even more lost—

a disaster

within these swelling walls.



marking my path,

as each cue of direction

is swallowed by this labyrinth—

unwilling playmates to my memories, dreams.



clawing for an exit

that is nonexistent.

frantic, panicked, hysteria rising,

devising my slow, starving demise.



outside of myself,

sheathed in the scent of my own foul fear,

this black silence wax-like in viscosity,

slows my every move

like a dream,

a figment of my tormented mind, soul—

one in the same?

it doesn't matter anymore.



formless mass of desolation

colorless hallways of angles and turns,

this growling house of entrapment:

no cogito ergo sum anymore.




A.B. Davis is a novelist, short story author, and poet. While she leases apartments in the day, she writes with the flourish of a madwoman in the evening. A recent graduate with her Masters in English, you can find her at the local bookstore, seeking even more reading material to hoard for the apocalypse. Or you can just see what she’s up to at www.ashbdavis.wordpress.com.

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