The clock ticks,
the blood boils.
Behind the cold eyes, sulking through the pages full of scribbled lines.
The room breaths,
and the chair squeaks.
A distasteful stare through the desolate silence and beautifully drab darkness.
The man sits,
his thoughts race.
Moments turn to minutes, minutes to weeks, weeks to seemingly eternity.
His hands clench,
And his teeth grind.
With a gentle rocking and disgruntled humming, a mind is lost.
His nails grow,
And the shadows dance.
Under old floorboards, figmental creatures scamper, tip tat and tather.
A distant ring,
That only grows louder,
Obscure figures appear screaming screams with even more power.
The fear swells,
Until it spills over.
A final screech rang in a fatal hell, an ending demise without closure.
A life ends.
His clock has finally stopped ticking,
And his blood has turned stagnant and cold.