There was this film, right?

There was this film, right?

 

And, I only just remember it.

Except, a thing stuck like boxes.

Dark ones, black hole deep

and sheer metal sides and steep

and polished so hard they gleam,

you can’t dig fingernails in those,

however sharply you’re filed.

I might’ve dreamt it, my age

right? If so, I claim those boxes

for me. He’s stuck inside, worse,

he cannot see if up is down

like when you’ve dived so deep

plunged, you pull strokes to drown:

when what’s forward is reverse

they’ll be calling for my hearse

because the water is thickening,

forms in a dense, inky sphere

of false surface while you hang,

panic, strike out and punch in

until all hope becomes sickening.

Well off topic, so, deep breaths

to catch my thoughts soon and

the hero trapped, battle scarred,

he’s pulling himself up or down,

fighting insurmountable odds,

every inch gained of ground

leaves him panting, all Gods

having long left him for dead.

But he’ll try his strength instead

on those vacuum frozen hinges,

he’s testing every sweaty ounce

of muscle, every fibre stretched,

every prayer he’s left is fetched

from deep within his sceptic soul,

you see it all in his grainy gaze,

he’ll plant trust in anything now.

And in the third act, it gives.

Or at least that’s how I recall it,

this hatch swings wide, wide open

onto space; from his face all trace

of triumph gone, put in his place,

framed by expert lensmanship

as all our faces sag with shock

at just box within box within box.