Spiraling out of control.
Descending futhor into the oblivion, at a slow crawl.
He could remember the days of sanity where he was grounded in faith.
Where the pale ball of fire shone across the clear sky, bathing him in light.
But the storm was coming, with rumbles of thunder and flashes of lighting.
The tempest blotted out the beautiful rays of sunlight.
A great shadow stretched over the land.
Bring darkness and an eerie twilight.
He tried to find it, to find his light.
But he spun weightless, in the unknown.
Like a tongue of flame, he flicked back and forth.
Dancing between delusion and reality, unable to choose.
But the voices came with their mutterings of greatness and lunacy.
Like a snake who slowly curled around its victim, constricting his very breath.
Its venom poisoning his very soul.
He couldn’t breathe the once so clean air.
He was the voices.
Gunshots, screams, and the deeper he went.
White washed rooms and hands tied behind his back.
The abyss of hysteria now stretched for miles.
He started at the forsaken sky.
Syringes sharp as spikes, impaled his body.
The light brushed across his face but it was long forgotten.
Comforting darkness.