It mocks me.
I know it must.
Only forty-five minutes out of three hundred sixty.
These dead, beige walls
choke my soul.

I long for the smell of fresh air,
the clash of the taste of rain,
the feel of the elements.

But, of course.
I'm locked in this brick prison.
Never allowed out,
staring, staring,
straight ahead.

But I'm staring, staring
staring at the
beautiful tree,
gnarled tree.
Longing to be near it,
and out of the brick walls.