The Submarine

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Silence. Peace. Panic. 

Our steel shell sinks into the abyss

As we glide unseen through yielding waters.

Three inches from death with our world-ending weapons

Hidden away, an apocalypse at our fingertips, waiting for the call. 

The stale air makes claustrophobia a worse enemy. 

Madness tapping at the windows. 

The darkness drips in, drip… drip… drowning

the twitching lights. In my head,

Sanity corrodes like iron in saltwater. 

Through the creaking glass is black and blue.

All that I can see: sea. Sea. The bottom of the deep blue…

I am not a sailor, whose white suit mimics his billowing, birdlike sails.

I am a prisoner. My steel chains mimic my cell. 

This submarine is not yellow, but grey. 

Submerged in a sense of stasis. 

We have not sunk to the lowest point, nor have we floated to the surface,

But we stay, average, dull, in the middle, never rising, never falling,

Drifting in a passive state.

Waiting.