These bare, rusted window grills,
Black against the green foliage,
Tapered with rain droplets,
From the morning past.
On each a little reflection
Of my face, teardrops soaken.
I remember the nights before,
When my pillow wet in sleep,
Insomnia creeps now as
I see the window grills—
They bar me from the sky above!
Trapped in a misfit aura,
I can’t see the birds anymore—
Can’t wait any longer.
To be free.
Poetry.inc 