Frisk, for quite possibly the first time that anybody in this room has seen, looks outwardly nervous. What were they doing? Well, that was obvious. The real questions were why they let Papyrus drag them to this thing, and why they gave in and wrote an actual poem instead of a really long pun or a stupid limerick. But they were here now, so... might as well commit.

Trying their best to calm themself, Frisk coughs and mutters, "Um. This is my poem. It's called 'Cycles.'" At first, their reading is rushed, but as they make their way through the recital Frisk gradually gets into the cadence of their amateur poem.

Yellow shine
Darkness fades
Eyes open
Then close

Time to try again

Step forward
(One after another after another)
Towards foes
Towards fights

Towards friends
(Their stories are now mine to carry)
Deep breath
Path chosen

Long fall
(Stench almost smothers)
Alone again
But not

Claustrophobic memories
(Things to do, can't tarry)
Concentration conquers
Darkness swells

Yellow shine
Darkness fades
Eyes open
Then close

Time to try again

"So. Um. Yeah, that's it," Frisk says, shifting from foot to foot. "Yeah, I know it's bad."