Trapped

The world unfolds like a half written story,

Cartoon outlines of trees and cars and buildings,

Each face familiar with a smile I once wore,

Each person cultivates between friction and mid-static.

Each person is another version of me.

What if sometimes reality becomes turbulent,

And the mirror I once looked in becomes a curved tube,

Sometimes I see the edges,

Holes in the sky where the code bleeds of light,

Our world becomes a street corner that loops around,

Then I reach a long chamber,

I see rows upon rows upon rows

Of people unconscious in glass tubes,

Stretching into dark infinity,

Their bodies rest in thick liquid,

Motionless and pale, 

Their circulation cuts off where the straps clench.

The glass is thinning,

And people are watching from the other side.