And perhaps these walls should meet with reason,
with this insight accrued from interviews given,
a history of, by means with their scornful eye
like that of that Proudly Hopeless King
at what he must have believed to be
His deaf beggar's palm?

Or should I even bother to tell you the story
of every other corner I've passed?

Or perhaps this, like all others, is of pure desperation,
and I've just now again realized,
I'm running out of time
and its eternal spaces to stay.


Then should my life back them...
If here I decide to even rule that,
To sit and die
malnourished and neglected
by her, My First... I've lost

So what if I've had no other opportunity?
How I sometimes--still wish
she had set her expectations with me.

What of her for these expectations?
I would not speak poorly of thee.


Pace yourself inside this room, which you've created.
Your haul has now come to an end
as you had all the time you've been given,
and it is--was
all the time you need."

The devil does not sit on my shoulder.
Instead, he separates my body from mind
allowing me to perform that which I wouldn't
with my consent to this decree.


I have little else to say;
for I thought my last words would never come,
or, at least, would never end so that neither would I.

But perhaps these are the walls which meet with reason.

There is more to write
with the eye of every king
at this deaf beggar's palm.