On a cold Octobers night,
Under a starless sky,
On an old balcony,
Rocks a rocking chair.
It creaks and groans
old dry wood, rhythmic metronome,
A man was murdered in this chair,
Blank stare, as he rocked and rocked…
Every minuit of every hour of everyday,
Spent quiet, little to say, rocking away,
Till the rocking slowed and his last thoughts,
Of the past, trickled down around his neck
and strangled him.