the hills roll; they mirror the clouds
that lazily scud across the sky,
muffling the sun, tearing wisps
into the powder-blue above my eyes

I am trapped inside, grass growing faster
than I will ever be free; time passing
in shadows, gasps, and pulsing hours:
bruise-black night will seem everlasting

when it comes to hold me once again,
inside a house, inside my mind I decay
and I rot, waiting for something, some
unknown glory in the light of day

but day breaks and burns me once more:
the sun too strong for my pale skin,
trees swaying, and I envy them;
I long to emulate their calm within

I am a storm-cloud which cannot soar,
my precipitation weighs me down
I long to fly, everything itches like the
scars littering my skin; my solitary frown

reflects the curvature of the fields,
meandering dandelion-speckled, corn-rowed
they become the entire worlds of
grass-chewing cows, horses alone

we watch over them, I dream through panes
of glass keeping me from fresh air;
I long to feel its breath, soak in
the sun; weave flowers in my hair.


*© Tara India.