What dreams may come of self imprisoned fate,
Beyond the window with the sounds of life abounding,
Trapped in the glass and mesh of air conditioned comfort.
All those beyond in realization of themselves,
The birds, of flesh and steel, of horses free and bridled by the hundred.
Of humans in their will, their task before them, purpose imbedded in the deed.
All there, beyond the picture window, sullied by the whipping rain, by earth in dancing with the wind.
The light grows dimmer by the day, but neither towel nor hose is taken for the remedy,
Nor do I leave into that blissful state about which birds do sing,
Nor do I remove myself, the key around my very neck, from this dark corner of my mind.
I’m not its victim, only an accomplice of its weakness,
How readily do I depart from strain and set the winds through the channels of my ruling cavern.
Out there, beyond the good and easy, are lives alive with toil and struggle.
They’re full of sense and purpose, and hope.
They do not want what they cannot achieve for themselves,
But readily bend their spines so that their younger kin should someday not.
And here I sit with self prescribed anathema against the struggles of the world beyond,
And place about a veil of hurt far beyond the callus and the strain of flesh.
Like a decomposing log, with some residual purpose for the mites and moss,
I sit heavily upon the ground, in my own wet, inert, with only remnants of what I once was,
What I could always be,
If not for the termites of my own invention disassembling me from the very roots of my being.
What happened to the feed and water that gave me flowers and the rings of years?
Replaced by affirmation once removed, of acknowledgement on the electronic plane.
What good are wishes and support when they are no harder to give, and no more substantive, than…?
If there were no drive beyond the measure of existence, then so could I, perhaps, be happy thus,
But cursed I am with wanting more than can be had,
More than what we each are now willing to give.
Cursed with expectation up to which even I cannot live as I am not called upon.
From where will my fulfillment come, from where to find the strength to digest the moss and termites,
And sprout again.
And give shade and breath and utility, and be fulfilled.
Stillness, calm, serenity,
I am overcome by you when there, beneath the open sky, and to the song of your earthly angels,
I feel myself a part.
When gentle breezes waft oak and sandalwood onto my yearning nose,
And brooks and streams give movement to my thoughts and dreams,
And passing clouds take shape according to my whim.
Come with me then, my hard fought balance, come with me,
Stay by my side as I go forth beyond your secret garden,
To the world of access which prevents, and links that subdue, and mastery which brings ignorance.
Stay with me, world, as I leave you for the one we made, so that one day we may, in our hearts, return.