The feeling was cold. Cold walls. Cold hands. Cold heart. Cold. Cold. Cold. Feet. Arms. Legs. Head. Heart. Hands. Hands. Wrists.
The feeling drumps on his ears, echoing around and around i his head, bouncing off the walls, and through his bones. Causing him to grit his teeth, and tap his fingers.
The long bones of fingers, and lost control and no food and pain, picking at the wooden floors, in an quiet, repeating melody.
To pull at the chains strung up to the walls, to the ceiling, like a cobweb. Chaining the bones and rhythm and beat of the echo of an man.
There's a pause in the continue of tapping, all thoughts of cold and pain held bacm by the glass of eyes, broke by the beat of the old forgotten heart.
It beats sometimes, as of to remind him of his life, it slows sometimes, as if to remind him of his death. It beats under the melodies and memories and mothers of sisters of brothers and fathers.
A curse and an gift, and wanting mistakes and needing the brakes. To pull and to laugh and to cry and to scream.
To wait. Wait. Wait for the banging of the door. Or the stopping of this beat. Or the breaking of the wall. To look though glass eyes and sandcut tongues.
To wait for the frozen of hands and feet and hearts and feet and toes and hurt- hurt, hurt.
For melodies to stop and smiles to fade and the tap, tap, tapping of hope and stars and moonlight.
His heart beats again, trapped like he, inside a cage, inside a cage, inside of him.
Of red and blue and purple to dye paper skin, to paint the walls and create nursey tunes and old young stories and legends.
Beat. Beat. Tap. Tap. A band plays, a drum is out of tune, the keys are off again. And yet, he sees, though glass eyes and sandcut and paper and cold and walls...
...walls, floor, ceiling, door...
Cold. Cold walls. Cold hands. Cold heart. Cold. Cold. Cold. Feet. Arms. Legs. Head. Heart. Hands. Hands. Wrists... Repeat.
