In a room that's closing in
Filled with glass so paper thin...
Do you hear them? Do they see?
Must it be a mystery?
Footsteps closer... Or farther still?
They'll want you to take your pill.
Broken mirrors, but perfect memories,
"He needed only to say 'please'"
You hear the snap of his neck, still clear-
See pale eyes filled with fear.
But he deserved it! You can't help but smile-
Hearing footsteps all the while.
Dart across the broken glass,
Leaving blood like dew on grass.
There she stands, grinning wildly,
And, with your mind still spinning wildly,
You swipe the glass across her throat.
See her gasp for one last breath,
Then walk away, leaving only death.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
Poetry"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty." -Edgar Allan Poe
