The Empty Room

I can hear the echoes of footsteps, at times the rattling of iron bars, but my thoughts are too loud, repeating in this dim and disturbed mind. My rage used to punch all four walls, hoping concrete would crumble, but broken knuckles only left crimson stains. At least they offer a little colour to the grey. I have no idea of time nor date. Twenty three hours flow too slow. Too much time to dwell, wasting away, horizontal, upon a worn out mattress, but the sliver of light offers some respite, as I wait for that one hour of restricted freedom, escaping this stale stench of sweat and mildew. I think about the lifeless souls before me. Sometimes, I turn to God, but only the Devil replies, adamant I should join him among his bonfires, but there is no rope nor any sharp objects to end these sleepless, tearful, deep sighs.