Subconsciously Bleak

Slowly dim the lights in the white
room where I spin like a toddler.
I cannot receive these sudden changes
and my mind becomes transient.

I can feel each nerve crackling like
fireworks exploding in a day lit sky.
When I sit still for too long I feel
my shadow moving without permission.

The door to the whites of your eyes
is creaking between my twitching fingers.
Such hinges are not meant to go both ways
but in aloneness I unleash fearful visions.

A rabbit calls me from a little green house.
I hear her breathing over the phone; panicky.
In a plane of wolves we are subject to these undertows.
Goodness seems almost like a fleeting thought.

Oh sweet kindness, please stop turning your cheek.
Consideration becomes rare, and we become friction.
Cycles stacked upon cycles like never slowing gears;
each one working to reproduce sensations selfishly.