Slowly, idly, lackadisaically
The clock ticks to a thousand degree
Crossing angles of my obliquity
An eternal wait of pure agony.

A mind game is but a child's play
In these four walls of cream and grey
And the heart could easily fall prey
To this pointless introverted decay.

How time flies by so fast
But its wayward wings can never last
It can only cry a regretful past
How soon is soon, this I shall pass.

The future is an elusive plead
Of the tattered hearts and scornful greed
That the mind will try to sprout a seed
And sow a tree to bear the deed.

Tomorrow lies my judgment
That will either end or start the torment
And all these myriad of seconds spent
Will all turn a fraction of a fleeting moment.

The ceiling becomes a painted mirror
Of pure monochromatic colors
My veins enrapture in this cold terror
As my heart relearns this familiar horror.