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.

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For he was as fallen as Satan, but he was also the Son;

John Milton, who saw God as he was.