Fumbling with her breath
Captured thoughts evoparate from
Her brain gauching out sight away from
Her sockets. Dark voicesless feelings
Panicked freeze beneath her skin.
Numbness streams in the flow of
Oxygen hanging from her bored lungs.
Nothing conspires against the quiet
Of her solitude, trapped within the
Shapeless space, a child, a former
Consciousness bang in the wall-less
Room of willing prison hood.
Her existence is a questionble
Jewel in her brutally soft hands: is she real?
She can't feel, think, understand
Nor cherish human abilities like the
Rest. Static voids consist her spirit
Boxed in a black dust-less production
Of the brain. Her soul floats in a
Non pragmatic liquid invisioned, invented
Or felt. As she caresses her scars
Phanthom thoughts come to her mind:
'Nobody ever died from a numb soul
So I'm OK'