There is a cold tingle upon my spine
Cold hands wrapped around my feet
The sun I see is a harsh line
On wooden panels
Perhaps I should go back to sleep

The clock strikes a weary noon
Silence meets my wake
Eyes open to the same old room
Chained by indifference
Different days spent standing in place

Beneath my sheets I stir and twist
Eyes flicker with dreams
My mind grasps me with an iron fist
Trapping my physical form
And tearing at all of my seams