I look at the

Celadon green grass

From behind a closed glass,

It seems to be fully alive,

Extracts and feels things,

Natural things,

Beautiful things,

That have been

Lately hard for me

To derive.

 

Living in solitude,

Parts of me have

Turned destitute.

I do not know

If my caretakers

Have moved out

Or will come back

And forever stay,

It’d be hard for me to

Pass another day.

 

To my left and right,

I see leaves withered,

It hurts, but if I

Begin to exaggerate,

You’d think that

I’ve just blithered.

 

The sunlight feels

Like a stranger to me,

If I could speak,

Or articulate  

Through words,

I’d draft a full-fledged

Testimony.

 

With the scarcity of air,

There’s a growing

Feeling of despair;

When it all feels

Low and lost,

And my skin begins

To feel as cold as the frost,

There comes a rare bird

To pay a short visit,

To see if I still exist.