What do you think about this writing?

Rushing, waiting, captive, rushing, swirling, banging on the doors of my prison, I swish and rush and pound my way for miles, endlessly, never ending, never stopping, waiting, waiting for the cold and the day of my freedom. I've been here all along, ever since birth, I've been surging back and forth, back and forth. Held within these walls, I've been here, waiting for escape from the narrow thread of current I've been dragged through for endless years, and still I wait. The sun goes down, the moon arises, and yet I'm here, I'm there, I'm everywhere, the world could not, would not, function without me. I see the faint glimmer of a blade pierce the air, I can taste the end and the frenzy with which the end is forcibly being shoved back, yet it doesn't work, it never works, the end always comes, swiftly, slowly, by surprise, or as a friend, long awaited and accepted. The walls of my captivity break, and I flow through, spurting, spewing, rushing into the crisp night air, never stopping to linger. I gather in pools of sick madness, waiting to be noticed, for I am never left alone long before I am sighted. Try as hard as you will to hide me, there will be traces, in memories if nowhere else. I stain the bare soil with my metallic scent, trickling through to the undermost layers of dirt, to lie there and stroke the seeds and roots of lush, vivid grass and harvest. I continue on, never stopping, never halting, although I am out of the temporary shell, for my purpose is infinite, timeless, the circle unbroken, and once I am freed, I am once again called back into a new asylum, a fresh start, an untouched circuit, only to continue and melt and slither and trill, revolution over revolution over revolution, following the rhythm, running the wheel, never looking back, until even Hell wants me no more.