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Immured

I am immured.

Deafening, my shrieks ring inside my skull.

My mutilated hands carve incessantly into brick.

My blood, within such confined space, becomes quite intoxicating.

My stone enclosure hushes me.

I am carried.

My shrieks waver and ebb.

All elements urge me to succumb.

I am left to perish, my body will decay.

I will become one with my prison, the nefarious structure that damns me.

My maimed fingers hopelessly work to escape my dark hell.

The smell of blood, so thick I taste rust on my parched tongue.

My panic subsides.

Deafening, in the silent abyss,

I rest and fade into decay.

I am immured.

 

It's rather dark, very dark actually, but being immured is no joke.

 

 

ArabellaBlythe ArabellaBlythe 22-25, F 1 Response Apr 7, 2009

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The flow is right. It's panicked, chaotic, desperate. It is dark in the sense that one feels trapped and bound to the inevitable fate of becoming nothing but part of the landscape; a terrifying idea for those who do not want to become the environment they live in.