Anxiety.

A poem

Midnight is a

blossoming

apocalypse

in the forest

of your mind.

Each gravelly

tree trunk,

scarred deep

with ancient

happiness,

is blind to

your touch.

Foot by foot

your feet catch

each muddy

sinkhole along

the unending path.

Your eyes gasp

for a light

that no

longer exists

until you doubt

it ever once

existed

and stop

trying

to catch

it in your

breaths.

Step by step

the suckling

ground perversely

puckers around

your ankles

and knees

in an attempt

to swallow you.

You slog beyond

the point of fatigue

towards a horizon

that has always

held the lead.

This journey has

taken more muscle

than you can muster

and more will than

you thought was welled

up inside of you.

There is the heartbeat

of a beast in your wake,

or so you think.

There is the heartbeat

of a beast you need

to escape,

or so you think.

There is the heartbeat

of a beast thundering

in your breast,

each undulation

causing you to not

give up on yourself,

your miraculous self,

as you search

for daybreak

once again.