The dark tendrils touch me, unwelcome fingers,
Wrapping themselves like vines, around my trunk,
Pulling me to the ground, I collapse under the weight,
Helpless, insubstantial, no heft to defend,
I lay prostrate, hear no sound, see no sight.

The ground welcomes me, collapses beneath me,
I’m swallowed, falling, falling, is there no end,
The bottom is reached, a solitary cell,
I have no will to rage against the bars, 
My resolve is sapped, 
My hands are feeble, no instruments to fight the dark,
The goaler is smug, conceited in victory, he leers and laughs,
I am always at his beck and thrall, but know not when he may call,
He offers only alcohol and smoke to ease me, 
But a trick, to drive me deeper into hell;
teasing - all just trinkets that turn to trash.

In time, he is drunk on triumph and in a stupor falls,
The bars shimmer and dissipate,
Reluctantly I seize the chance of flight and claw back to the light,
The tendrils I shake off and the sunlight kisses my face,
Sweet air I breathe again, the flowers burst to life.
A cloud drifts lonely in the sky;
he will come for me again.