Sitting

Sitting

Trapped within your private cell
A hell of your own making
I sit and wait till all is well
Or until the time for leaving 

Choices, choices, choices, 

They are why you're ill 
And yet you can't stop shaking
When someone tries to tell
How to stop the grieving 
How to slake and quell 

Those voices, voices voices,

That chorus of the pale
You hearken to their shrieking 
Clinging to your shell
Forever tied to gripping 
The cage in which you dwell 

While chances, chance, chances

Slip through your fingers, frail
The minute hand is raking
Dead leaves over the nails 

J.M. Rogers









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