The Bedroom Window (July 2004)
There’s light from my window,
All boxed in four squares upon the floor.
My bedroom, a prison with a double-locked door.
There’s spring outside my window,
All open and blooming green.
And I, a slight prisoner, in my cell go unseen.
I write and sketch in this book,
Looking for reason where there is none
And wondering at the clock’s ticking hands.
Do they crawl so slowly?
Do they dance so quickly?
Perhaps they will take me before I am free.
There’s light from my window.
All bright and golden as melted butter.
Yet I, a slight prisoner, in my cell still shudder.
There’s children’s laughter outside my window,
All soul music bubbling up in elation.
And here I am, the sole keeper of a private nation.
Tagged under frustration, patience, poetry, time
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