Dead Layers

I am trapped inside a maze

a numbness settles in, I can feel

dead layers upon dead layers

between my soul and the surface of my skin.

Through the window, lights flash

off in the distance

pinpricks, signals to someone else,

they match the centers of my eyes

 but across the dark waters,

all I can see is my own face.

I grip the paintbrush, slowly, painfully

drag it across the blank canvas-

stretched thin -

that forms my mind.

I fumble with a pencil and smear

color inside my eyes,

on a reflection of graphite,

bleeding out white charcoal

 onto a morass

of dark paper,

fighting against the black ink

dripping from my shaking fingertips.

Underneath the dead layers, there is fear,

a cold, tired sensation

of pins and needles, and the ache

from putting weight on frail legs:

a rush of blood to the feet.

The kind of fear that only comes

when sleep doesn't, in the early morning,

where I know for certain

there's something waiting for me

in the dark, amidst the scattering

of overpriced art supplies, papers,

and a torn portfolio,

a fear of numbers, evaluations

 imposed upon the brief flutterings of a creative brain

awake hours ago, but no longer.

The numbness intensifies,

I can hear my heartbeat swirling in my ears

I am the only soul left on this planet

awake, breathing, waiting

for my judgment to begin,

long after the glow of sunrise

breaks the morning sky.