The Monster whispers in your ears.
In your dreams;
Of your fears.
Of that cold place you never look.
In your head -
Like wishes he took:
Crumpled at your feet like yesterdays paper.
Sickle cell, dagger.
And a rapier.
The cutting edge sliced thin with words;
Heard too often.
Maybe - for the birds?
The elevator stops on its path to hell.
What buttons are to be pushed?
Only that Monster can tell.
So the choice is yours, in what you know.
The Monster, his words.
Where that elevator will go.
Or remember the most important button of them all.
There is no Monster.
Press stop, my friend and stand tall.