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.