In the absence of the quiet, I grow robbed of the peace of stillness I long to know.
In the trenches of my heart, I feel the heaviness of stone start to grow.
In this chamber, I find the echoes of this longing plight drown in all that I hear.
In torrential streams of noise, I grow paralysed and drown in endless fear.

In the roaring din of this lion’s den, I live to be naught but prey.
In this darkness, I wait for the sanctity of light materialised to save this day.
In this hopeless victimhood, I cannot help but fall helpless to the night.
In anxious agitation, I find there is no way to escape the futility in this fight.

In this state of helplessness, I find these failings fill me with irrefutable shame.
In my inevitable fall, I can only bide a meaningless sense of blame.
In the slowness of reactiveness, I feel the sting of poison’s percolation.
In my slow decay, I feel the touch of loss permeate every cell in my circulation.

In degradation, all that remains is tinged with awareness of fate impending.
In the tumult of my miserable melodrama, I find far more breaking than bending.
In the fractures that grow, I find nothing grows healed despite my meaningless mending.
In this vicious cycle, I find peril in the torture of imposed oblivion never-ending.