grey muffled voices–
shuttered dusty white shades that don’t rotate
that don’t move,
that bend and shake as you pull the little white cord.
Never more than the briefest glimpse of light peeks through.
it’s oppressive in that warm room
the floor creeps toward the ceiling
the walls pour in from the sides
the carpet pulls the fight from the soles of your feet
the white walls.
the relentless clock.
the viscous air.
and your feet cemented to the floor,
and the voices,
your feet that won’t move,
your labored breathing,
the creeping white walls,
and the encroaching ceiling.