Been here before,
I can remember this scene
like I was walking here one day,
sometime in a stolen dream.
I remember the faces,
the way I sense movement,
it's like I'm not in control.
Pulse in my neck races.
Through automated eyes I stare,
my gaze not mine.
It feels I'm being pulled
in one direction. I can't turn my head.
I can't explain. Nor unwire my brain
to look the other way instead.
Been here before,
can remember the scene,
I have lived this moment
in cycles it seems.
I go with the flow.
No choice. it’s their show.
My eyes only look where they are told,
my limbs move only where
memories tell me to go.
I see a note written in red ink.
Blood? It says turn your head.
But why do they always lead back here?
Is it this place I seek?
This door. This hand grabbing the handle.
Mine. It feels disembodied.
The door inches open with a grinding creak.
Sounds like the gates to hellish eternal penitentiaries, feels like a tomb
that hasn't been entered in centuries.
In the darkness a hand beckons me in,
A cackled laugh. I can picture a bloodysoaked grin.
As the creature within leaps
for my exposed throat.
I keep going back to the note.
Turn my head.
I look to my side.
There is a knife, almost within my grasp.
In the blood that pours from my ripped torn throat
I scrawl myself a note.
One day I may be able to break the cycle.
It's my only hope. Darkness cloaks...
Been here before,
I can remember this scene
like I was walking here one day
sometime in a stolen dream...
Thanks for reading
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