Maelstrom, rising, howling, calling, demanding, drawing deep and drawing in— shifting and pulling, attracting me— Maelstrom, rising, howling, beckoning— singular and singularity, gravity stronger than my atoms drifting in circles like a record on the spindle of my mind— when will the needle wear the grooves too deep?— my thoughts exist on repeat, unable to escape the ruts I’ve dug myself, like trench warfare— but I’m at war with myself, logic and passion, logic and desire fighting with an ambiguous no man’s land between where I actually exist— Black, no light can escape, but from what?— my mind hold tight to uncertainty, living in un-knowability, reaching for understanding but unable to translate thoughts into speech, so I live quietly, speaking little and just observing, wanting to be a part but also apart, held in Rhys Lee Density, page 2, stanza continued tight rope juxtaposition like a photon trying to escape a black hole— yet eventually I’ll be drawn in, unable to leave, unable to escape— what do I want?—what are my intentions?— Black, the color of endings, absolute, absorbed in entirety, become one, neatly resolved because all colors like me are the same in the overwhelming trap of singularity—density in mass so great nothing can escape— where am I headed?—what will become of us?—am I acting rightly?— Maelstrom, call me into your being and spit me out on shore from the fish’s belly—let me drink deep of you and drown under your waves— pummel me and change me— wear me as smooth as the stones resting at your feet— evolve me from your life essence, deep in your abyss so Black.