The biting hollow space throttles my sense of up/down
seeking a soft oasis hidden in this deserted place,
where its teeth can pierce and gnash until sated.

I, pressed against the swelling dark, lumpy and tragic with discontent
relentless against any solid surface, driving unto its end;
slick glass reflections, become coarse approximations,
then settle into the gritty sands of nothing.

Time nibbles on the nerves, prickly with inaction
stuck within a brittle plastic sense of false.
Am I to be the refuse, the water, or the dry bed?
Do I move, remain,
or let the world carve me into its own design?