Longing for the cold
longing for fresh air
longing to feel the sting
of frozen air in my lungs
wanting to touch the snow
to hold it in my palm
until the flakes fade away
a puddle of water left behind
clear enough to drink
it is all out there
through the glass
close enough to touch
but the doors are all locked
the exits all blocked
the closest I will come
is to rest my head on the cold glass
longing for the outside world.
- cold glass -
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the cars go by, snow drifting off of the tops. I see the plows, their bright lights flashing. The people with shovels, digging in the dark to find their frozen cars, deserted overnight. The first rays of light come through the clouds, staining the sky purple. The snow is blinding in the newly dawning day. The outside world, fresh air, the pulse of life, the electric current of a million thoughts and emotions. Inside these walls. Caged in a box. The doors are locked. The air is stale. You hear the noises of the damaged, the forgotten, the broken. You wonder if they will get better in this beige colored prison. Will they leave and stumble, falling forever? Fall so far down that they can’t claw their way out anymore? How many of them will eventually die by their own hand?
How many of them will be truly healed?
- healed -
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