Here in this room, behind shuttered windows,
dark shadows are rising from under the floor;
defenseless, my heart has taken the corner
to huddle in silence, slight-shivering, sore
as the ice in my throat, a settling sickness
to stifle my lungs; I am bled of my hope
like a stuttering candle. I've forgotten
to breathe for days now, but at least I can hold
my breath as a shield, my only defense,
a measure of time in this heart of an ocean,
I am trapped in this room, surrounded, captured
and bound, all dreams dark-dying and frozen.
How do I rise? Surely, I've lain here before;
trapped in time trapped in breath upon the floor.
For he was as fallen as Satan, but he was also the Son;
John Milton, who saw God as he was.