If i wander, lonely as a cloud, do my footsteps make a sound?
If i can be characterised, it is by inaction,
the requiste moment is resultant of aeons of tensed nerves
and bated breath.
The twirling fantasies behind my glassy stare
are the wealth and depth of my experience
of love and life,
death and terror,
eloquence and longing,
(not necessarily in one another's company).
My life behind closed eyelids has been nobody's business,
even less my consious self's.
Those who imprint this world must needs get out of bed in the morning.
But i did not.
Either chained to, or bricked in
(by my own hands or other's)
my world contained four walls, a carpet, ceiling, window and door.
The door was shut,
the window closed- but yet transparent.
The world still existed through the leadlight panes.
Tree tops and birds had business together,
where only squirrels and sunlight might eavesdrop,
and my eyes,
peering into a denied or forbidden life.
A lived life.
But not for me.
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