In the corner, the clock ticks,
each sound a krakatoa in the silence,
the sharpness of every second,
a jagged knife slicing through calm.
I feel it pulse against my temples,
like a drum in a parade of my despair.
Time is a tyrant, relentless, unforgiving.

Breathe in—
the air is thick,
a storm gathering in my chest,
a cyclone of anxiety swirling,
spinning faster, faster,
until I’m caught in the eye of the chaos.

A neighbor’s laughter,
the clatter of dishes,
the rustle of leaves—
all become a cacophony,
a symphony of dread,
conducted by an unseen hand,
pulling strings of my mind,
tightening, tightening.

What if the world collapses,
if the sun blinks out,
if I’m left in shadows,
lost, unheard, unheld?
Each pulse of panic pushes me deeper
into the chasm,
a spiral of relentless doubt,
as if I’m free-falling into a void
where hope dares not tread.

Outside, life moves on,
but here I am,
trapped in a labyrinth of whispers,
screams muted by my own fear,
clawing at the walls,
searching for a way out,
but finding only echoes of despair,
the clock ticking, ticking,
and I am nothing
but the sound of silence.