Asylum

A room.
Four walls, all white, though not padded.
A small window and a door, safety glass.
Not quite what you had hoped for but yet,
there is a bed,
and you're alone to think, or maybe fret.

Asylum.
But you're not gone, or not enough, just now.
Three locks on the door, bold brass.
You can just imagine the metal on your heated skin,
but more to keep
the others out than keep you in.

London.
Just your flat, third floor from the top.
Wonder what the distance is, should you fall.
Landlord says no guests, no pets of any kind.
It seems to you,
that seeking human contact is a crime.

Two weeks.
That's how long you lasted, almost crazy,
in your London flat worth half what you paid.
Two weeks until your eyes turned ruby red
strange to see,
you never were that good with words.
That is until you spelt it out in blood.
Perfect poet now you're dead.