prickly vibes climb the ceiling
of the attic you weep
in,
      the comforts of your worn-out bed;
                                                        stained blood-red.

it's awfully cold
for a typically sluggish winter
day-,
             by-day you still don't learn;
                                                  of no return.

staring at the mirror you see
it is not sadness you suffer from
but,
        a full-blown catastrophe;
                                         permanent detainee.

you sob for weeks but no-one hears
the screams dance off walls and doors
begging,
             for mercy or an escape;
                                          man-in-cape.

y­ou've done nothing but lead
a dull life and now you wait
distressed,
            with empty hopes for a rescue;
                                                     past overdue.

it's hard to say what went wrong
and easier to say what went right
despite,
            you dying and all;
                                  *poor soul.