These days my insanity rests like a child, dormant but ever remaining.
My mind builds the walls and doors of the cage made to contain it.
But ever so, the innocent sleeping child holds the key to every door.
It holds the map to every twist, every turn.
Though resting now, all it requires is to be roused.
All it requires is a reason to wake.
And though I hold the child within its room in my mind,
It holds the power to destroy me.
