As I lie in bed, fears and obsessions
hurl like ice daggers through my brain, heart, gut
and penis, turning my being, my one
hope, to fragile frozen crust, delicate
equilibrium quivering to edge,
then avalanche, swirling me far within
the abyss. Dark drift of depression’s ledge…
is it ledge…is it bottom…is it sin’s
last step?...paralyzes even panic.
Encapsuled in blackness, somehow I know
my senses surround me, monoclinic
crystals crushing my furling psyche, slow
torture telling of what’s to come. A frost
steals my breath, whispers, Now your soul is lost.
Roger Armbrust
January 10, 2009
