A quiet room beckons a lonely thought

Whose unsure footsteps echo longingly

The darkened room does invite

With candlelight, dim and unsteady

Its contemplative visitor to sit down and become cozy

In these boundaries, that the darkened room keeps so meticulous

To find and read a whithered, tired book

With escaping pages

That kindly portray a happy world filled with conniving people

That cheerfully depicts memory and experience that boldly combine

For the sole, antagonistic purpose of accentuating

What the room's gloomy visitor could never quite find

A quiet room beckoned a lonely thought

Who in the search of anesthetic solace

Peeked in willfully

Shuffled in unaware

Let the quiet sing to its lonely heart, a dirge like lullaby

And embraced the solitude that whispered lovingly back

It listened to the garbled song speech

Unaware of the deceptin

That come cycle, solitude morphs into something else

Something else that validates its existence through cyclic monologue

And ensures its rules through surgical manipulation

Rarely ever does the new being morph back into quiet solitude

Success and power being a heady drink whose thirst cannot be quenched

A darkened room beckoned a lonely thought

Who bitter and angry gripped the solitude it had once loved

In a deathly vice grip, too afraid to let go, too warped to deal its end

A lonely thought thus

Remained as such

But now it is quiet no more, anguish having seized its throat

Hate slowly encompassing its soul in a soft coat of laothing

It echoes on and on

The thought and its soul

Their piercing screams blunted by a rational mind long since twisted

And in the darkened room sits, invisible and smiling

Having played its game, wrought its will

An equally quiet being who beckoned the lonely thought to its darkened room and had held the dim candle aloft.

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