Loomed path.

Dim lighting in this dark room.

I walk the path of endless loom.

A story told over a hundred million times.

By different people and different rhymes.

I walk alone, along the yellow brick road.

Not bright and warm, but dark and cold.

Yet I walk, and walk. I never tire.

A gun at my back, ready to fire.

I walk, isn't it the only thing to do?.

Looking at the sky, wide as it is blue.

The end seems nonexistant

The gun behind me is persistant.

When will I reach the end?

Of this rollercoaster ride?

When will I be rid of the hand?

When will I get back my pride?