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A Rhyming Thingy
A Rhyming Thingy
Laying; staring into the corners of my box room
Ceasing at the slightest sound of movement, only to slowly resume
Letting my mind run as I glance at the bright numbers nearby
Wondering when deaths brother will come taketh me away from where I lie
Waiting, watching, the hour seems endless
But there is no other option nonetheless
Why must I endure this?
Why can't I escape my own mental furnace?
All I can do is lie and wait
Wait for Death's brother to quickly change my mental state
The evensong has almost been sung, still I reside, still I lie
Forever trapped in my own mind's eye
