Fractured light gleams off the walls
Reflecting off the Rolex strewn casually across his immaculate desk
Its platinum plating smirking at the watchers
From under the diamond rock.

He wanders through the halls
Stares at the struggles of those below him
Through the translucent walls.

Reaches out a hand
But can never touch the world
Obscured by the diamond windows
That are his prison.

Tilted, rounded walls make caricatures
Of lives, of livelihoods, of people
Like funhouse mirrors in the playground
Of life.

He winds his way through the streets
Of those outside his cell.
Staring through the milky panels
That bar him from his subjects.

Though he can never touch, never truly see
It is he who holds the power
above the watchers below.

The joy that comes with a pretty spring day
And stopping to smell the roses
Or listen to the birds
Or feel the warmth of the sun caress your skin

The joy of a smile
A laugh
A conversation with someone new
Or friends you’ve known forever

When you cross paths with an old acquaintance
You haven’t seen for a while

The feeling when you see the “A+” on a math test
That you’ve studied for for hours

The laughter you when your pet does something funny
Or a friend
Or a sister
Or a brother.

The happiness you feel when you know you’ve done something right
And can now relax, the burden relieved.

When you help someone
And know that it’s made their life
Or day
A little better,
A little easier.

The feeling when you realize
That maybe even reading a poem
Like this one
Can make you just a little bit happier.

His mouth forms a wide smirk
as the others laugh at his words.
But it isn’t funny.

She lowers her watery eyes, glasses slipping
down her nose.

Book pages flip
in the breeze that picks up.
She loses her page.

His mouth opens, sharp daggers sliding
from his lips
Their laughter echoed by the trees.

She gets up, stumbles, falls.
Lines of carefully thought-out words tumble to the ground
his foot stretched out in front of her.

Their hands reach for the pages.
Fingers wrap
Around worn bindings.

They play tug-of-war,
trying to pull it out
of each other’s grasp.

A rip.

Papers scatter in the wind.
Snickers fade with the footsteps
as her eyes rain tears.

I bend down.
Papers fill my hands
one by one.

She looks up.
The sun lights up her clouded eyes
as she takes the faded pages,
in her grasp again.