They can’t see me
from the high ledge of the hospital
trapped inside the corridors
of thick glass that’s ever-seeing
but obscured by black
so they will never feel its gaze.
In the formal confines of a structure
is sterilized tragedy—though it exists
in its purest, concentrated form;
listen closely to hear the unspoken lament
masked in everyday laughter and conversation.
They can’t see me—the world that’s
crisscrossed and angular
though softened through the glow
of headlights and porch lights.
They hide from the looming building
and the baleful black of windows
that, despite their knowledge
of its containment
only reflects them back.
Author notes
First poem I've written in a long time. So I'm a little rusty.
Comments
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At least you've been writing. And the rust is minimal compared to the lingering shine your words have. Pardon the fact that this will be a long paragraph; I'm online through my phone. Anyhow.. It's like feeling quarantined, a terminal existence, the title giving me a slight suicidal idea. Oh, how so many could relate and how so many could never understand.
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