What is this, this room that's spinning in circles?
A room with nowhere to hide;
No way out but to admit to denial
And confess up all your lies.
No windows, no doors, no glances to dodge,
Just the guilty conscious you hold within;
One twisted mirror veiled in white, misty fog
And a patience that's wearing thin;
A hand on the mirror reveals a clear spot,
Your lonely face framed by the mist;
Beads of sweat, eyes red and shot,
You read into the reflection you've missed:
A sturdy stone path turned to nothing but pebble,
A barren pine be the only sight.
The leaves flutter and fall, the wind causing a tremble
As the soul sinks and unveils the night.
You're back in the room, you in a glass square.
There must be something more.
You bat air in attempt to see what's not there
Yet creaks open a pine wooden door.
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