Alone,
trapped in the prison of the night.
Sailing through dark corridors
with doors that, like ancestral graves,
will never answer.
Living in the unhaunted rooms in which
time has stopped from living.
Haunted by your own thoughts,
monsters of doubt chasing you to this edge of life.
Fearing to mode a speck of dust,
as to not awaken the fear,
that none shall wake,
you hover between states of existance,
questioning.
And as you pick the shade of roses
to put on the grave
you start believeing that you are
Alone.