Ashton Bruce, Staff Writer

Lips stitched together by invisible thread, (his) words secluded,

His (mind) is abysmal, dark and dank.

His sanity (is) warped, twisted like the mangled arms of dead trees,

Filled with the recesses of (broken) thoughts of crushed bones.

Brain clawing for judgment, (he’s) treading on glass,

Some pieces shattered, some gauged into his skin, (lost) in the grisly crimson.
The ground he walks on is glass, the knives (in) his heart metal.

Ideas on how to escape flee him, and he has no will to save (himself).