I traded the wide open ceiling of the night sky and spring mornings,
the ever stretching further carpet of emerald goodness,
and floral scented air
for a four walled room,
with a nine foot ceiling,
and fifteen feet,
from here
to there.
No matter how long I walk around the box I am always
led back to the shuttered window by the bed.
The carpet is brown and the ceiling is white
but sometimes at night I can hear the crickets chirping
from a long displaced forest, from somewhere far away.
The music isn't always hampered by midnight sound pollution.
But the ceiling is forever lost
No more milky-way swirling in the deep, deep black
or the azure throw with diamonds spread across it's
threads and the blessed falling objects that I could reach up
and grasp with my tiny-child hands.
Though I can taste the water, the mercury  still offends
Stop thinking of the places that cannot be returned
and this quiet destruction,
For which I make no amends.