Tons of this liquid, controlled and
lashed into a prison. It is
confined near overflow.
The command of planning
dictates most efficient utility.
This cold calculative nature
attracts me. I cannot resist such
grounding and am pulled to the leftmost lane
where I kick into the fluid. It splashes,
lashing out in pain rippling, quivering
at the violation. The little life
it clings to leaves it cold and the
chill creeps through my skin and sends
a small but violent tremble
that runs to my toes, which
have rotated and pressed themselves
against the tile wall of the cage.
My legs bunch up, the muscles tense
and then I release.
A vacuum of motion
sucks the body of water.
Chlorine ride violent flash valleys
through new rifts in my hair
and my goggles sit deep
into my eye sockets
with great and sudden
gravity. Here, in the middle of the pool,
the far end's deep tiles blend
with more immediate patterns.
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