Trapped

Whispers flicker like candle flames, soft and crackling, a chorus of echoes— distant laughter and distant tears. One claims the voice of reason, weighs heavy with logic, yet unsteady; turning questions into shadows: "Why this? Why now?" Another sings lullabies of doubt. Melodies twining through my thoughts; fingers tracing outlines of failures stitched into memory: "What if? What then?" And there's the tempest— fury wrapped in a velvet glove, angry shouts scatter like raindrops; the sky inside me darkens: "You can't! You won't!" Every voice dances at dusk, unfurling wings of possibility and despair— each one pressing against the walls, proclamations that bleed into night air, thick with anticipation. A soft voice slips through, an old friend tucked between breaths; he hums promise like dawn breaking and even the skeptic bows to him for a moment. "Just breathe," he whispers, arms open wide to welcome light fidelity. Yet, amidst this raucous ensemble, I roam a solitary corridor— a stillness cradled tightly around me, trying to decipher who I am beneath their clamor, listening for my own heartbeat beneath all they say.