When the days tick by like hands of a clock

With a crocked head counting the seconds of deadlock,

My eyes beckon with a dare; a stare down of reckless care,

Looking for a share of something, anything beyond this:

Stale air, void of nothing. Perhaps I can be like the wolf,

Huffing and puffing till a waltz takes place; however,

This routine is the brick house, and my lungs do not hold the strength.

So, do I fold? Give up bold dreams? Lay down an’ let the mould scheme?

Or do I rise up and rip the seams that shackle and bind,

Escaping the jacket like a Houdini to leave behind,

What made me blind?  Maybe that is all I need, is an axe to grind;

In my mind, to mold a key to open a window,

to let the fresh breeze in an’ the light shine perhaps then,

the days will cease to tick by, like hands of a clock.