Abandonment

This atmosphere of a sunken feeling

is always already upon me from within.

Everyone around here

has consensually agreed

that my eventual death

should be caused by my isolation.

It is being repeated continually

as a background murmur

easily within ear shot

but nothing said directly to my face.

There are no faces to face me in here.

The barometric pressure

in my solar plexus

is increasingly compressed

even though I feel like

I am being dragged

through a quicksand of sludge,

contributed by my own making.

There is movement in my person

as if the first response is to realize.

I am in

an emotionally spun straight jacket

though not for the first time,

for there is a closet full of like apparel.

There is my inner resistance

in almost every response

coming out of me.

Even a quickening of intent

as my thoughts find me more remote

and more tightly bound.

I am reduced

to claustrophobic thoughts

of a repetitious nature.

No more striking back at the events

that introduced this.

But there is an undercurrent

preoccupied with unnamed doom

that is pouring in to submerge me.

There is a cast of gloom

meeting me all around

to internally grapple with.

My muffled pleading

is for a kind of suffocation

to take me away,

to end this frame by snapping it.

But no,

everything offered,

soon becomes goop.

A goop that separates me,

a goop that surrounds me,

a goop that closes in from all directions,

a goop that floods to overwhelm me,

a goop that comes out as my feelings,

a goop that maybe I discover is mine,

a goop and no self-thoughts that impede it,

no life-vest of a thought

to save me from sinking

ever yet compressing me from within.

I am going nowhere

with shallow breathes.

This is a life and death

of apparent circumstances in paradox.

All attempts at any other familiarity

other than this, fail.

Here I am,

my numbing constant

with no distinct handle

to pull myself out of . . .

a-ban-don-ment.

This child cries

into a dense fog of agony.

This sorrow is suffocating

amidst all the outpouring

that has sound.

There is no comfort

from an abound of alien self.

I am myself that foreigner within.

I am amnesia to a face saving past.

I am comatose to a person

I used as myself to face others.

This is redundancy.

Did I just say that?

I am licking deep interior wounds

as a small self-gesture of comfort.

I am in shock

but without the physical evidence

to impress others.

The buckle-down confinement

of a simple pseudo conscious breathe

and I am looking for what comes

as first thoughts to follow

yet still unconnected.

Frozen in a stillness

of serious inner attention

as a hope for distraction.

This is the way a deer,

I would imagine,

settles in

after fatally being struck by a truck

alive yet still dying.

But I lack the hard evidence

for empathy or medical attention.

A-ban-don-ment,

enough said . . .

(and then it recycles)

Who cares to know this first hand?

And to what degree

of trust rudder ship

does it have influence

on the course of your life?