Strange happenings,
And even stranger feelings.
 
Small room, low ceiling,
Several leather couches,
“Take a seat, son.”
Comply, slowly.
 
“You’re done for. I know you probably feel strange right now. That’s normal.”
Nothing,
But emptiness.
So this is it?
The end?
 
A real shame.
To know you’re lost,
To find out like that.
 
“There is only one cure, boy. Here. Use these.”
Two objects,
One large enough, fitting in the palm of the hand,
The other,
Small,
A projectile.
 
“Use them”
“The only way”
“You’re done for."
 
I’ll blow my mind,
All over the back wall,
And create a pretty picture,
From my thoughts.


Paint me a portrait,
With my life.