rollindays
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TRAPPED IN A BOX
I’m trapped in a box,
In a cell barely bigger than me,
I try to breath out of its narrow slit,
But it breathes back onto me,
A familiar wraith starts coagulating over my body,
Applying its weight on my gaunt bones,
Choking me,
Inflicting pain beyond measure.
I shriek out in agony,
I become sallow, writhing in pain,
Still no one can hear me.
I don’t know the countless hours,
The sickly minutes I’ve resided in here,
Trapped In This Box.
Sweat has stopped trickling down my face,
There is no tingling on my skin.
I try a shrill cry but my throat is dry from within:
My soul has been transported to a forlorn island.
Am I on the brink of death or in death?
I’m not sure,
Because warm air sways over me.
Is it my hyperventilation?
At last something of mine not dead?
But how wrong I am,
It is death reaching out for me.
Death unveils its gory sight,
It starts to diffuse in my veins,
Its sharp claws clutching my dead skin,
I am dead.
My emaciated bones,
I can hear them crackling.
My cognition,
I can feel death aggrandizing in it.
I am dead, surely.
But death refutes me once more,
As it reaches me swiftly,
Beckoning me to my cursed fate,
It remains relentless by the passing seconds.
I am not dead yet.
Death looks at me with its sunken eyes,
I stare back into them, ashen inside.
I catch a glimpse of its gory sight,
But I realize it is something I do not want to see.
Pleading for forgiveness I start to falter,
But my life disgraces me once more.
I always thought death was pacifying,
That it would be gentle as roses,
I think not now.
I let out one last gasp,
In vain
I’m trapped in a box,
In a cell barely bigger than me,
I try to breath out of its narrow slit,
But it breathes back onto me,
A familiar wraith starts coagulating over my body,
Applying its weight on my gaunt bones,
Choking me,
Inflicting pain beyond measure.
I shriek out in agony,
I become sallow, writhing in pain,
Still no one can hear me.
I don’t know the countless hours,
The sickly minutes I’ve resided in here,
Trapped In This Box.
Sweat has stopped trickling down my face,
There is no tingling on my skin.
I try a shrill cry but my throat is dry from within:
My soul has been transported to a forlorn island.
Am I on the brink of death or in death?
I’m not sure,
Because warm air sways over me.
Is it my hyperventilation?
At last something of mine not dead?
But how wrong I am,
It is death reaching out for me.
Death unveils its gory sight,
It starts to diffuse in my veins,
Its sharp claws clutching my dead skin,
I am dead.
My emaciated bones,
I can hear them crackling.
My cognition,
I can feel death aggrandizing in it.
I am dead, surely.
But death refutes me once more,
As it reaches me swiftly,
Beckoning me to my cursed fate,
It remains relentless by the passing seconds.
I am not dead yet.
Death looks at me with its sunken eyes,
I stare back into them, ashen inside.
I catch a glimpse of its gory sight,
But I realize it is something I do not want to see.
Pleading for forgiveness I start to falter,
But my life disgraces me once more.
I always thought death was pacifying,
That it would be gentle as roses,
I think not now.
I let out one last gasp,
In vain