Shuffle

The walls shiver beneath my splayed fingers.

I've been told walls are cold, lifeless things, but my time here

has proven to me otherwise.

These companions in white coats,

others with thick sticks at the end of stout arms,

they are now all I care to know of existence.

And yet they torture me with the sound of endless doors opening.

They call it freedom, but I call it treachery.

These soft walls still whisper to me to stay,

and I scream at them that I will, that I need to.

But eight hands in white rubber have decreed otherwise,

and so I am being removed.

Reviews

[Skoo.]

Wow, this gave me chills.