A Sanctum to Fester; Asylum
A misunderstood soul cries for mercy,
Atop the wabbling pinnacle of adversity.
The genie of a lamp to grant his three wishes,
Of which he rubbed and recieved shots and stitches.
Held prisoner within what is sure to be his tomb,
He's robbed of the rights to his very own doom.
He, whom I watched begging,
Broke his soul on the chore we call living.
Left with no option upon which to retire,
They pump him with sedatives, lest he expires.
The pain in his face adorned by this empire,
They call this control but its actually a wildfire.
But alas, the screams were finally broken,
We are left in a wake, t'was silently spoken,
Of consternation to rise when next he awakens,
And the coupled sighs with each step taken.
Share This Poem