Spiral

I drift in a frozen coma of gray:
A watery well
closed and dark behind my eyelids,
sweet and light to my unseeing eyes.

The innocence I lost is

fl  it ti n g

between my fingertips.

But my arms are rigid and white,
my fingers a beautiful sailboat blue,
unable to grasp a precious second chance,
unable to adapt by mutilation.

I float in the cold,

dead

quiet of the sea.
                           
                                             
                             I have never been so lost.