In the mundane silence of our shared space,
visions of violence fleetingly trace.
No malice fuels this dark reverie,
just a curiosity, a twisted fantasy.
The shape of his skull under my grip,
a fleeting thought, a dangerous trip.
Each day draped in the dullness of the routine,
breeds thoughts unspoken, cold and serene.
Imagining the crush of a windpipe’s collapse,
not driven by rage, but the void perhaps.
The echo of actions I’ll never take,
in the silence, these violent whispers awake.
But the clarity of such a scene,
in the chaos of mind, a deadly serene.
Fantasies dark as the quiet is deep,
in the stillness, these morbid thoughts creep.
Never to act, but to think feels so clean,
a secret violence, silent and unseen.
What lurks in the calm, in the idle mind’s play,
where boredom breeds shadows that sway?
A contemplation, stark and refined,
in the recesses of the quiet mind.
So I’ll lock away these thoughts, these unsung fears,
in the confines of my mind, where they disappear.
Yet in the quiet, they dance, they dare, they rise,
in the dark theater of the mind, a scene behind my eyes.