He just sits in his dark, grey room now, lost in himself, In his thoughts Is it a form of escape, from the grappling hands of fate? In deception he lies, For he is a dreamer He dreams. Of playing all the pieces of Life’s repertoire, There always doesn’t seem to be enough time. Will he ever act? Walking with shuffling feet down the sheltered halls, Throwing it all away in reckless abandon He has time to kill, Or will time be the death of him?