The desperate man stands alone in the room.
He gazes around at the dust and the gloom.
The chair, it is old, and it creaks when he lifts.
The noose he has tied, it constricts as he shifts.
He rocks back and forth, and he moves to and fro,
He kicks at the seat, and time starts to slow.
Now the visions and voices cease to haunt me:
I am that man, and I'm finally free.
Copyright © Danny Stinson