Sup3rnality

'Tis not the dark I fear, but the thought I'd lose my way, blindly drowning deeper into the shadowed depths of a yesterday's setting sun. I've been lost before, found comfort in hiding teardrops in the black of night. But this, this is something else.

Surfacing plays like a heady dream at the edge of consciousness, like deep-sea diving and looking up at an all too distant sky that feels like at the point of your fingertips. Just a little bit more, a little bit more, a little bit more, a little bit, a little... And as the last seconds tick off the moments you have left breathing, you realise that you never get closer, but is just the illusion from the gentle sway of the water, distorting light as if it was only but a breath's reach.

I'm drowning still in the dark. Choked from the void. Stifled from this blanketing silence. I've been here before, yes I have. The restlessness a familiar stain that never washed out. Many a time I believed I made part of the ensemble; a painting of rejection, the tearful resignation, made to be broken again and again, fixed up, then back again. You'd think I'd have numbed it down, hollowed by secondhand heartaches, and bleached through with empty smiles.

I've been here before. The dark knows my name, knows that he was once the only company I knew and knew I own the deep-seated fear of being sent to him again. But it is not him I fear. No.

They say, it's darkest before dawn. And in my doing time in the recesses of the stillness before the break of the light, I felt the swell of the morning bright. I've been saved by the dawn once, like I knew he'd come.

But this time, the shadow cast over my head leaves me trapped in a fog that thickens the air and suffocates me. I'm drowning without hitting bottom nor seeing the light of the sky, and I don't know if I'll ever see it again.

Oh tell me, tell me if the water off my back is the morning dew, the gentle gift of the break of a new dawn. Or is it a dream, and am I slowly drowning deeper down.