Locked in a box
In the room of a flat
On the 18th floor            
Of high rise block seven

A light shines dim
Through a dusty pane
Of forgotten social dreams

Crying for the pain
That lives in the box
Of sadness and solitude

Beauty sleeps
In a parallel dimension
The adjacent dwelling
Unprovoked
With its telepathic tendencies

Death walks in
Birth falls asleep

This air that feeds
Soothes and prolongs
It burns and rapes
All day long