The Padded Prison, by Chaz Sollars

I reside within my padded prison, my thoughts awash with images of the conquering worm, of putrefying flesh disassociating itself from the bones of an inert cadaver. I strike with violence upon a ceiling which elevates no more than six inches above my being. I can make no sound, I pray God deliver me from the jaws of my enemy for I sense death covets my soul. I ask God why he hath disbanded any mercy he may have secured me, my cries go unanswered. The air decays, my eyes close, my body ceases. I tenant the grave