I am paused
on the edge suspended,
waiting for it to hit.
I am silent
in-between sounds,
half-and-half exactly.
I am held
by the invisible
and it holds me still.
I am static,
cathartic in stasis,
no mistakes.
I am locked
closed in the pages,
a wishing-well.
I am stuck
to go anywhere I please,
in a limited direction.
I am stone
frozen without cold,
statue of the macabre.
I am phantasmal
moving within
and without the skin.
I am fixed
in a slit
and away, again, I slip.
© Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor