Trapped Poem by Dan Brown

The wandering hand which strokes my head
cannot soothe me in a strangers bed.
My words are murdered as they're said;
barely-built bridges all but dead.

So often followed by faceless walls,
and all the names that no-one calls -
Little wonder he always falls
throughout his journey down these halls.

At night, in the eaves, hides guilt and shame,
taunting because he's not in the game.
Too many people without a name -
But playing with shadows is not the same.