Cold, clammy,
This air has a body of effervescent water;
but the bubbles trap clouds,
Silky to the touch,
White air, more solid than the light in my eyes.
Cornered,
by nothing but a whirlwind of grey and white.
All space has ceased,
All time is lost.
What remains, is the abusive hand;
that gropes me,
but neither can it hold on,
nor can I escape.
All I feel, is colder.
Twitching legs,
beyond the tenderness of a shiver,
before the violence of seizures,
start moving.
The hands morph into sharp edges,
into large pieces of furniture.
Into shiny cars, into woods.
And I reach the shelter atop the hill.
From here,
all that's visible is a solid white
with a patchwork of scattered mass;
a photograph devoid of color,
framed in the memory.
Soon the fog will clear,
and the now, non-threatening objects;
will find their way to move.
Image Courtesy: "Silence. - Russian Carpet" by Sasha Olegovich