And a cave of ice surrounds your soul,

Your body has become a living prison.

Without bars,

A soft-cell,

For you insanity.

Pounding the walls,

Screaming in the silence.

Yet no one hears.

Run as you might,

Scream as you will.

Fear,

Fear,

Dancing with the dead.

Their skeletal forms swaying,

Their ghostly fingers

Chilly

As they brush your hot skin.

You trapped them

With you.

In your prison.

Your soft-cell.

White-washed walls,

Padded,

So you cannot hurt yourself.

Locked deep within

You own body.

Your mind

Screaming for mercy,

And salvation

It cannot have.

And in the silence,

The silence that

Death leaves in its wake,

And though no one can hear,

A voice shall ring out.

It shall scream,

It shall whisper,

It shall coax,

It shall yell.

And most of all,

It shall drive you,

Drive you,

Chase you,

Deeper,

Further,

Into the corners

Of your own soft-cell.

It shall penetrate

The silence

Of your prison.

It shall kill you softly,

So you do not feel,

Death creeping upon you.

Stalking,

Suffocating you.

Watching.

Waiting.

Lurking in the

Non-existent shadows,

Of your cage.

On those grayed hues,

Of the padded walls.

And in the soft cell

You shall remain.

Waiting,

Staring . . .

Forever.

In your padded prison.

Forever.

In a soft-cell

That is your own body . . .

Spirited away,

You shall be no more.