I shut the doors and open the windows.
I can see outside, but outside does not
If I stand just still in the middle of the room,
I can create the tripping switch I need
to pull to begin
Sometimes I hear the grumbling shadows
demanding and pulsating
within the remote
control of being.
Inside the buttons are caressed
menu of existing becomes opaque.
I open the doors and shut the windows.
I can not see outside, but inside does
Are slipping morals really the worst
Or do we not know how to breathe
with one another?
Sometimes I identify more with bubbles
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
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.