Mine

down here is close and stale
and egg-like, my head is
small and tense and tight.
down near by you is
dense with breath filled air,
loud ambience upon my ears.
of what line of fault did
you become to keep me here,
my kept head fears this dark
lit brown – your presence –
I would not see by choice.
sat tucked and tired, my
ear drums ache with dread
for final death, the crumble and
approach that is your voice.