Internal s T r U gg Le

Heaving breathlessly,

There is solace 

                      in nothing.

And carry in my skull seems to be a sort of             m o l t e n  

          s p h e r e                  

instead       of the            

                                b r a i n. 

                       

A myriad of colours, 

         images.

Yet all later turn to          Blanc

And then 

                                       Noir. 

Incessantly making the cardiac 

                    s t o p. 

then stormy 

                         waves 

         came; 

With no shore in sight to 

reside. 

With this, I decipher to you my friend, 

Your Anxiety 

fiend.

-a.g