Panic Attack

The rattle echoes.

With each step I take

I drown in the thump thump

of the machine.

My heart will stop

if the percussion should suddenly shift.

 

The intense twinkle of blue, red and

other colors bounce from wall to wall.

They are almost in sync with the noise,

combining into a blinding heart attack.

The masses bob up and down, to and fro,

to the banal beat.

 

The reverberating mix of light and sound

pierce the walls I’ve built. The

swamp grabs me, pulls me, confuses

me. I struggle, finding myself drained.

Cloudy. Dazzled. I can’t

tell one way from another.

 

My weak legs go back to…instinct..?

Carrying my smoky mind through the crowd,

the awful mix of spray-on chemicals

slowly lets go of my tongue. I sense…something

cold, fresh? No, no, refreshing.

My mouth, it…moistens.

 

The chill. My flesh. The words!

I soak in the brisk draft.

It washes, better yet, cleanses me!

I have emerged unscathed, out of

the quagmire. Back and

forth, the rattle, merely a hum now, beckons.

 

I collect and store the freshness into

a cache, then venture back inside. The

low buzz of music, the gentle

flash of lights and the overpopulated floor?

Tolerable. I see some females and wander to them.

“I’m going to dance here, feel free to think I’m dancing with you.”

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