The Final Solution Poem by L MILTON HANKINS

First the sounds were voices self-confined
Like distant whispers pricking at his mind
And he, confused could scarcely reason them
Nor question whether source he might consign.

Then they tolled like death-bells in his head
And he thought how right were they who said
There are none to cipher, knowing him
He would much the better off be dead.

Next they came as friends bestowing only good
And havened him about as one protecting should
With white, sterile walls to explicate his whim
And think that he will come to rest in solitude.