Blinds

There is a set of dusty acrylic blinds upon

A large window facing a placid street

Where dappled light drifts through

An old oak tree that breaks concrete

Into two softened stony cracks.

Never does that lonesome and hollow feeling

Settle as deafeningly as when I grasp

This prison visage when the room is dark

And the love of crisp breeze and caressing sunshine

Tries to spread open these plastic bars

With illuminated silken fingers.

A forehead leans against the window,

Moving the stiff slack layered blinds

To make room for this hot and aching skin

Of a human bound by the straight jacket

Of a life never chosen, but stumbled upon.

The brow is chilled by the dying winter's glass,

Left over from a passionate brawl with wind.

Sweet relief from the fire burning within

That is smothered, smoldering white

And ready to set aflame the papers

Between which, I've settled into;

The lines and paragraphs of

Living a lie.