Is there nothing more to do?

I caught you through the window in between pain
and the prism in the corner of my eye.
Glassy net,
in webs of catching spiders,
widowing their queens.

In the corner of the living room,
a prison hold,
impending doom,
well, that all depends on you.

Is there nothing more to do?

Panes of pangs of hunger rains
while I just sit an wait.
Tap my fingers to the drops and watch them break.

Flying through space,
flying away the same.
Moving away,
closing the walls in.
I wonder if you'd wait?

If its true, we're drowning, you
should know the difference soon,
between now and then and beginning at the end.

Is there nothing more to do?

Is there nothing more to do?