The white walls of his padded room wept beneath the silence of his sleep.
Dark gray shadows of unknown feet beneath a locked door do creep.
Voices tell in muffled tones hearing nothing, speaking only of the dead.
Broken are his dreams bound on frayed seams which skip offbeat in his head.
Yet he knows not that his prison is not formed from the white walls of this time.
For this cell to which he lay bound is formed by the shackles and chains of his own mind.
With eyes wide open it is no longer white walls that doth he see.
But only the foul darkness bore from insanities seed.
J. Allen Wilson © 2/6/2011