Pitter-patter, pitter-patter <br />Rain drizzles down my soul <br />A slight shower turns to a storm <br />While my hands are cupped like a bowl <br /> <br />The wind rustles between my bones <br />As icy waters rise around my feet <br />My heart picks up its pace <br />Sounding like an ancient drum beat <br /> <br />Layer by layer I begin to die <br /> As my skin starts to curl <br />The blood in my veins turns to ice <br />And the real torture unfurls <br /> <br />The truth rises like a newborn day <br />An open book of unwritten pages <br />I stare helplessly as hidden hands tighten round my neck <br />My body begins to warp, as if I had been through the ages <br /> <br />Suddenly I return to the isolation of my room <br />I am on my back staring at the ceiling <br />A needle in my arm, a mask over my face <br />And for me, machines are breathing<br /><br />Cheré Mason<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/regret-18/
