The Breaking Point
The door is shut, the handle locked,
by Samuel Hall
The light breaks in from the crack below,
As you sit in your room, full of fear and shock,
At the empty blackness, the tension, the woe.
Your existence is balanced on the state of the door,
The rusted knob groans and cracks from within.
Sweat down your face...what should you die for?
To control the shadow, or let it win.
As the handle clicks, as the key is turned,
Your life seems to quake and your hands grow numb.
Each second, the room darkens to a lesson soon learned,
Of the way of the thought, the choice to come.
Forcing yourself deeper into the back of the room,
You don't understand the events of this time.
The trying knob and this place, a tomb,
A victim of a state of chaos and crime.
While in this coma of fright and despair,
A realization appears in the mind.
You're under control, it's not really there,
And the darkness becomes harder and harder to find.
Without a second thought, the shadows are gone,
And the light disappears, without a trace, like a myth.
The room and the door lay still, nothing wrong,
And the driving reason for the fear is two words: What if...