Through the pane, the foggy, misted glass,
Lays a world that is familiar to my sight.
Grass, shades greener than I every dreamt,
A sky, blue and darkening with the coming of night.
I sit alone, in a room empty of all,
But my wooden chair, holding me.
While in this dark and cheerless home,
I must write just my thoughts, not what I see.
No one, amongst steel buildings and pollution,
Can feel the pain that I know,
As I look into the diminishing nature,
And see the world that I love, begin to go.
Like a plague that doesn’t choke me,
In my wooden box which saves my life,
I see the green grass burn and blacken,
I see the bloody murder of my family, my wife.
Violence, rage and destruction,
Fill the view from my smeared window.
As a writer, untouched by change and time,
I watch my world sink down, so low.
Standing and screaming I beat at the glass,
Until it smashes, my wrists slit and pouring.
Knowing that as my world goes down, so to will I,
With no final grace, and no final glory.