A Sickened Sky

I step into the hallway of endless mirrors,

each pane reflecting a different version of my rage—

a child screaming at the ceiling,

a soldier dragging chains of regret,

a poet drowning in ink that refuses to dry.

From the floor erupts a garden of rusted clocks,

their hands ticking backward, stealing seconds

from the void that feeds on my fury.

I smash them, and time splinters like shattered glass,

rain‑splattering the barren earth with moments I’ll never reclaim

A monstrous whale, its belly a cavern of forgotten sins,

surfaces in the middle of a desert; its eye is a black hole,

pulling at the strings of my resolve.

I seize its fin, pull it into the abyss, and watch it dissolve—

a reminder that even the darkest tides can be turned.

My mouth cracks open, a jagged canyon,

and from it erupts the roar of a thousand storms—

thunderclaps that shatter the ceiling of complacency,

lightning that sears the falsehoods that keep me mute.

The worst things have tried to anchor me,

to bind me with invisible chains of dread,

but I am the blacksmith of my own fury,

hammering each link until it melts into molten resolve.

And as the surreal world convulses—

mountains melting into soup,

stars bleeding into the sea—

I stand, eyes ablaze, heart a furnace,

knowing that the only thing worse than the darkness

is the silence of a soul that refuses to scream.