winding whirlpools...

Threatened in some nameless manner

Alone in the ruins of a building,

Doomed to a life of self - indulgence,

He hides behind a closed door.

An odd sense of distance,

An act of annihilation,

A wish to negate existence?

I am reminded of a one way glass-

They let light rays in

None escape though-

Belligerent defensiveness?

There is something impersonal,

Something in him I cannot reach.

Happiness seems to stare back at him

With unmasked distaste.

He wears a look of drained passivity.

No look of mockery or amusement.

It's as if he doesn't belong in these moments.

A haze that could rip apart

At any moment, to some shape of disaster,

Seems to be his only solace.

Probably doomed to a life of self - indulgence,

He's a startled stop between spirit and body.