An ocean that doesn't exist

My muscles begin to swim in an ocean that doesn’t exist.
As tears lubricate my eyeballs, the pressure starts to lift.
I listen to the groans of this boat as it basks in the setting sun.
Replacing the noise of my agony and the relentless beating of its drum.

I feel the weightlessness now, and soon I may even experience sleep.
In this goldilocks zone between doses, before discomfort starts to seep.
For a time, I recollect a younger version of me not darkened in this prison of pain.
When I could enjoy my own company without always walking in the rain.

My breathing grows laboured — my jaw unclenches, my sails slack.
But I even falter in my dreams as a stumble jolts my consciousness back.
Forty minutes of floating in an ocean that doesn’t exist.
Before the rapid crack of the next storm strikes my spine
— a tranquillity short-lived.

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