Sinking

I'm sinking.
The earth is swallowing me up like lava swallowing trees and luscious landscape after 1572 years of no incident.

I blink.
We're past culture at this point, down to bare human necessities that everyone would recognize should they be exposed to them, like genitalia.
Shame is overwhelming.
Honor is an artery that's been severed in a boastful, useless sword fight.
My ambition is spilling on the floor, staining and marking a point in time that can not be forgotten by the people present.
No, they will never see me the same again.
Pain is a chinese finger trap, and emotion are the fingers. The rest of the hands are those too hurt to help.
I have an umbrella, and there's a hurricane coming.
With time, it will seem like a mere flood or a light thunderstorm; distance always skews perception.

I sink deeper.
I am water, ready to splatter at the immediate contact of any remotely solid surface.
My chest is 90 meters deep, and my heart a bucket searching for the bottom of it.
Intensity radiates from my chest like the smile of an innocent child on a bus, only with the exact opposite effect, and like that child's smile, very few can detect the awe it generates.
My legs are fire and suicide is the hips of a beautiful, motherly woman.

I am defeated, still sinking.
The bottom is nowhere to be found.
Hope is falling.