There are little boxes,
for to pack one's life up in.
Simple phrasings,
to contemplate by men.
There is a future,
hollow wordings resonate.
A declaration,
for all to suffocate.
Fervors clamor for response,
something never to be received.
Gentle anonymity,
will it never be relieved?
Tinted windows to your soul,
they are vast, incomprehensible.
Joined deliberate entry,
and so very sensible.
Whatever you thought:
Comments
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Glad you were touched by inspiration again finally! I've been meaning to get back into this kind of thing myself (and hence the login).
With every stanza it feels like I'm going around a house and peering in different windows, none of which let me see what's really going on adequately. The mystery of Miss Menden!
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