Her Insanity

With her eyes gently closed she can see all too well, The corridor inside her dark mind, Sterile and clean, tiled floor, walls and roof, Where her happy and free had both died, And the doors made of iron open out from each side, Some white, some black and some blue, Each of them having the same exact square, With shattered glass that she can look through, To view the black empty inside each dark room, To see the same face staring back, She can see her own eyes both hollow and drained, Herself, just a bit more abstract, But what strikes her the most is the final small room, Same face that will never forgive, With a mouth open wide screaming right into her, Her insane that refuses to leave.