Each day I mourn, I rot within my cell,  
A prisoner to my own foul decay,  
Dazed and confused, repulsed by the display.
Sweet is the stench of garments worn too long,  
Of rotting fare beside my fevered bed,  
A rank perfume from A quiet tomb where all but hope has fled.

Beneath the sheets, I sink to shadow's maw,  
Into the void, where nothing else is fed,  
But the cold embrace of self and flaw.  
My flesh fused with cloth in grim despair,  
A grotesque union 'twixt the flesh and grave,  
Where I consume myself, a feast of air.

The night becomes a grim theatre where my repressed sorrows play out.
A mournful tale of life and death unfolds,  
A spark, once brilliant, now fades to a mere wisp,  
A fleeting ember in the shadowed night.

And thus, in sorrow’s grip, I waste away,  
A ghostly shadow of what once was whole.  
The creeping rot consumes both night and day,  
Till nothing but my wretched bones remain.  
Each breath I draw, a prelude to my fall,  
Each tear, a testament to endless pain.  

A mirror shows my face, a hollow mask,  
Reflecting not the youth I used to be,  
But haunted eyes that beg the final task—  
To free this soul from torment's cruel decree.  
In darkness deep, I yearn for dawn’s soft light,  
To break these chains that bind me to the night.