In this small room, the air feels thin,
Four walls press close, one door locked in.
A window too high, a bed too still,
A cold stone floor that can't heal.

Two books rest there, pages untold,
While shadows pass, the stories unfold.
Eyes glance at mine, then quickly fall,
Faces wear masks, and I don’t trust them at all.

I shut my eyes, afraid to see,
The weight of the world in their fleeting glance at me.
Who do I trust when the truth's a lie,
When every smile hides a reason to cry?

The wall is stained with the marks of time,
I sit on the floor, my thoughts in rhyme.
What can I do but feel the strain—
Of what’s gone wrong and what remains?

What goes around, what comes to stay,
I know too well the price we pay.
And all I can offer, in silent sorrow,
Are sorry's, and the weight of tomorrow.