objects in mirror are closer than they appear

spaces close.
no onset of claustrophobia.
the past is not far off.
charging, the distance closes still.
its coming-pas des freins.
as he walk towards the (tra(p)ast),
he sever all ties to myself.
and it hits and
lashes him to the metal cage.
he looks up, from his spot below,
and sees the sun shine down-
the rays prismatic, dancing on all
the good things he wastes.