The clock ticks in its roost
Upon the pedestal inside of me
My soul as a room
The couches are lush with blooded
Poison dripping in constant quantities
The black wooden case
A coffin of a ticking fate
Slowly wastes away upon the mantel
The fire roars, a beast protesting
Its screams echo in all the corners
Swallowed up in the thick carpet
A dense silence as it shuts its mouth
Devouring the shattered glass, the wine stains
The candlelight wanders in the window
A reflection of a single flame
The windows rattle, a starry exterior
The chandelier hangs limply, a calm interior
A plush sitting room filled with the scent
Of death and cold ice

Darkness sleeps, in the room that is my soul.