The clock ticks, a persistent sound
So timely, predictable, comforting
Straight like a board, simplicity is complexity
The small hand is their conductor
Pup-petting their very motion

The walls creak the sound of despair
Longing to be relieved from their shackles
Hollowing out their insides, Revealing their holes
Concrete, stucco, asphalt  
Solidifies their existence

The board mocks their silent screams
An empty canvas to be scribbled upon
Steered by the gestures of its very strokes
Tainted by the smell of the ink’s sweet high
A reflection of their inner thoughts