And at this frame I sit,
gazing at what grows,
dancing in front of me.
Will you let me dance with you,
please?

This little cube is warm.
When I hear the nothing
picking apart my door,
here I quietly hide.
But still my hands are wet,
fingers dripping,
dripping from the lakes
that replace my eyes.

Your branches
waving at me,
weeping like me:
a little boy behind
the glass of something
that says, “Don’t touch”.
My glass is even crueler:
“You couldn’t touch if you tried.”

My winter twin in suffering.
Pollution in the air,
blight and rot,
rain and despair.
Then sun brings you life
while I remain grey.
The grease of my hair,
my fading white shirt,
my pyjamas,
my daywear,
my prison stripes
and straitjacket,
skin eternally fair.

How strong you are.
Branches bending to the wind
but I hear no
snap.
Those fragile pink stars.
Holding on tight
but happy to lose their grip
when the time comes.
Can you teach me how?
How can you teach me
in an exile like mine?
Glass bars or force field?
My prison and my shelter.

Cherry blossoms dancing.
In the wind they spin
on my windowsill they sleep,
soft diamonds of spring
born from winter’s chill.
Forever reaching out,
to bring me to your side.

But you hit the glass,
snap.
So leave me here.