I shut the doors and open the windows.
I can see outside, but outside does not
                                          feel me.
If I stand just still in the middle of the room,
   I can create the tripping switch I need
                             to pull to begin
                             the reacting.
Sometimes I hear the grumbling shadows
                       demanding and pulsating
                            within the remote
                               control of being.
Inside the buttons are caressed
               and the
menu of existing becomes opaque.
I open the doors and shut the windows.
I can not see outside, but inside does
                                     not know.
Are slipping morals really the worst
                                       to expect?
Or do we not know how to breathe
                                  with one another?
Sometimes I identify more with bubbles
                                          of tenseness  
then I do with dishwater of despair.
Outside the plants and trees might
                              very well be growing,
but not the people. No, we the people are
                                 covered faces
                                       pretending
                                             we care.
In truth, the circles never stop turning.
Doors, even if open, always shut.
Windows, even if clean, always dim.
  I am a door without the pleasure
                     of a window to see through.