The secured box

I sit in a black room, and stare at the ceiling, I'm waiting, waiting for the stars invisible to my eyes to collide.

Wether my wrists are tied or freed now, does not matter, only the flicks of light, under the barrels. They are blocking my one escape, the door, for which I always ache, so much I feel like the dust between my toes, I do not know the meaning of the shadows.

The shades of the dark striding across the picture of my only hope, or the soft echoes, that hit notes in my ears, whether it is my illusion, or real, I am not aware. I can lie back and imagine, the shooting trails of splendor, above my head, above ground and the clouds, wishes glimmering along them, far away from South, and I should be less a fool, than remembering, as my arm itches at the retrospective.

It shackles me down, even more than my purposeful binds, because I'm afraid of the sky, of the sounds and the mights, the lives that could be mine, if only, I weren't confined now.