It's too dark in here
splinters of exhausted torch on the floor
where is the light
the light is gone
the door is locked
young old man
trapped
so bright in his own right
but wasted by his own hand
wasted
defeat without a fired shot
lock the door behind yourself
you've come home it seems
cold stones need not apply
the prison of the mind
is made of powdered self disdain
sifting through the stones
stones that you've dropped on yourself
pummeling you and them into an aggregate
cemented with soulless epoxy
put away your trowel and shovel
these walls erect themselves
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