There is a place inside my head.

Within my body. Behind my eyes.

It is real.

A pit of cloying sand that drags at me. From nowhere.

To struggle is to be pulled faster. To fight? Meaningless.

So I sit.

No, no screams. The stuff fills my mouth. Turns my hands in to useless


Then I sink.

In a pitch black horror squeezed.

Turned and pressed every which way.

Nobody has, or can ever, or will ever see it but I.

Who perhaps looks a little wild.

As I suffocate in clean air.


© Tom Tide 2016


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