The walls resound a seeping cold
that pulls away at sleeping souls,
it's quiet here; the insects, bold
the fabric strewn with tiny holes.

A tiny sigh and rush of air
burst from the one in sleeping death
at night, though, all had best beware
the little thing would steal your breath.

And I with worries, oft here dwell
for nowhere else would have me.
The joyous flickering lights would tell
quite the different story.