the poet in the corner of the back of my heart
is trying to escape, his hands are pulled apart
the walls are made of stone, the floor is crushed glass
the windows have long since turned to polished brass
the air is running low, his mind is growing dim
his thoughts circulating "why'd it have to be him"
the room is turning dark, he gasps one last time
then lays down on the floor, no more poet, no more rhyme
the glass that lay beneath him starts to melt like ice
spreading to the walls with a sound like mice
the melt back into red, the floor revealed
the lying figure of the poet no longer concealed
the winds turn to diamond, a sight s