But the air

Caught between in- and exhale
my throat a hoarse rusty-runged ladder of ruin
the air climbs struggles falters, then lapses
a weak puff emerges-
and tears run for their lives.

a little sandy-haired boy
who trusted me to no end
a woman blue-eyed and pale-
and I'm left again.

these are the fragments I scrabble at blindly
as I pant up that ladder towards light, towards freedom
my fingernails bleeding, metal flaking, arms shaking
if these are those fragments, I'd rather be blind.

but the air asks you not for permission or existence
pushing out in mere mockery of any free will
my escape from the darkness is similarly mindless
with no memory of starting, it will never desist.

so the sheets twist about me, cotton no consolation
as sleep taunts me, obnoxious: "maybe next time, we'll meet"
but I can't stop my mind, that enraging projector
constant flicker of torment: "just stop," I entreat.

but the air elbows up pumping brain-feeding oxygen
and the shrapnel of images flies through the dark
my mind pummels on; as I grasp at one feebly
a vicious laughter is heard; I could hear its cruel bark.

"Just stop," I whisper into the pillow,
"I don't know what I feel, what this is called,
but I'm breathing- which I didn't ask for, by the way-
There's gotta be a name for this somewhere," I venture,
my hands searching in vain only grasp at thin air.

and the bluey-eyed boy,
(can I save him from helpless?)
and the woman I caught glimpse of
(will she ever stay still?)
they are caught in my throat
between rungs of definition
at once stuck and elusive;
that's the progress I've made.

but the air is a fighter, last to go, it still hitches
up and down jagged edges and it saws my throat raw
all is locked in the space between chest and expression
except the tears, which I silently cheer in their escape.