I do not understand.
My breath is short, my limbs weak
A dull roar plays endlessly within my mind,
I cannot comprehend if it is my creator or myself
The chains lay heavy on my wrists
The air is thick, damp, suffocating
I am too vast to do anything but lie on the uninviting concrete slab
I gaze at the pale sunlight shining dimly through the dusty window overhead
And wonder what it would feel like on my skin
The sound of my creator opening the chamber doors echos around me
I do not stir
I have learned not to move
For if I move, or speak, or reach for him
I am beaten
I have done nothing wrong, with the exception of breathing.
