The quaint bedroom,
light and bright.
Open traveler,
‘round and ‘round.

High Monopoly game,
takes it’s turn.
Around the chair,
the chair that stands.

Dark and shadowed,
beneath your bed.
What are you hiding?
Is it really there?

Woven,
as if ‘the Wheel weaves,
as the Wheel wills.’
It’s all the same, isn’t it?

Standing alone against the wind,
letting it be your guide.
Have everything wrap around you,
in the sweet pacifism.

Be claustrophobic.
See if the voices care,
as they rummage around,
your mind.

Long and drawn out.
Life’s will,
life’s iron will,
holds on to its fabric.

Woven,
in time.
Insanity,
is kept there.

Fights long,
past,
haunts this life,
and its purpose.

Sun’s rays,
fill the soul,
and leave shadow,
behind.

Bodies are now,
their own,
and life takes,
another turn.

‘Round and ‘round,
the room of quaint.
Around the chair,
and its monopoly.

Around this poem,
into the Gates of Hell.
Falling,
into an abyss.

Land in,
the Soul keeper’s Rosebud.
Look up at the cream.
The cream of the ceiling.

And the purity,
the purity of the sheets,
around you.

‘Round and out,
the corrupted dream.
And the walls are laughing,
laughing at you.

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