The crack is always there,

no matter how busy I keep myself,

the yawn in the fabric

of the walls leers at me,

sneers with contempt;

it has no need to beckon me closer

for it knows I will eventually succumb

because I am always curious

of just how dark the scene is.

 

I could scream in the darkness

for no one truly hears

above the muffled, stifled gag

as the words catch me

in the back of the throat,

so instead I hide myself away,

locked in my own tattered box

and in which the madness of the age

can truly find me wanting.

 

My accuser stares at me, the flickering

fire of impatient scorn,

of grinning plausibility

dampened by both innocence

and guilt, guilty of all

I am innocent over and innocent

of all the guilt, yet I still scream

loudly in my head for reprieve

as the yawning crack widen to swallow me whole.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016