My soul is like a terrarium, sealed in glass and still,
A forest bred from silence, bent to fate’s cruel will.
Each thought a tangled ivy vine, each fear a thorned bouquet,
I water them with past regrets and let them grow away.

Light leans in gently, but my glass won't crack,
A paradise turned prison where the green won't turn black.
Hope is just a brittle sprout that wilts beneath my touch,
Too delicate to flourish where the shadows grow too much.

I used to dream of open fields, of air that kissed my skin,
But now I bloom in solitude, with guilt grown thick within.
A garden of my making, lush with vines of dread and doubt;
So beautiful in madness that I can't seem to get out.