In this room, the walls have learned to breathe,
change grips the air, shifts silently beneath.
Three steps, just three, before the world transforms,
doorknobs vanish, and light switches mourn.
A bed that mirrors my form, too precise,
familiar yet foreign, a cold device.
So I tread a worn path, three steps at a time,
in a room that rewrites itself, a prison of my own design.
Three steps forward, three steps back,
in this echo chamber, I lose track.
The floor might forget me, might let me fall,
to a place where my name, it can’t recall.
Every stride a gamble, every pause a threat,
the walls close in with each bet.
A light switch grins, a sinister seam,
in the surreal weaving of this waking dream.
My soles bleed caution, my spirit frays,
in the cyclic maze of my enclosed days.
Each repetition, a desperate plea,
for stability in spaces that ceaselessly decree.
Yet here I am, bound by fear’s hold,
chained to routines that my mind can’t fold.
What lies beyond, should I dare to break stride?
A universe unraveling, or freedom outside?
So I’ll keep marking time in this dance of despair,
while the room reshapes in the thinning air.
Three steps is all, but it’s a path too steep,
in the quiet unravel, where secrets creep.