Trapped. In this metaphorical minefield,
Where only poetry makes any sense.
Twisting and turning like a child
Desperate to awake from a nightmare.
There’s very little hope that I will wake,
Surrounded by suffocating darkness,
I swallow all of my words and reach out
For I have nothing else to lose.
Walking through this black hole,
With sweating palms held out, open
I’m sure to catch all the pain and misery
Invented by the underworld’s Lord,
But with hope still strong,
I endeavour to grip onto any kindness,
A white feather, of my guardian,
A star, rainbow or strike of light…ning,
As long as it helps me feel something,
Anything other than this cold air,
Like a demon breathing down my neck.
I will not stop until I find the mine of Chance,
That may be in my way.