These four walls have heard it all. <br />The inflation of sins and depletion of innocence. <br />Each night I undress and shout silently of my regret. <br />Every article made of lead; an angry word embedded in my head for my sleeping eyes to see. <br />I try not to sleep, but try to rewrite history as I see fit. <br /> <br />Legends improvised by minute <br />Truth refused; only accepted as myth. <br /> <br />And words are whispered: <br />Alas, <br />The sun has set and the house is drained of it's manic laughter. <br />And in the sleeping child's bed-time book is the only place to find a happily ever after.<br /><br />Rugger Stormston<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/newton-s-3rd/
