Outside my window I see the absence of activity
I see a wall that I built to become poetic – to call it dilapidated.
I hear the water droplets gravitating to the ground:
gradual, meditative, the cautionary observers of time.
My hands reach out for the feather resting on the window sill;
what could it mean but shedding of an aerial being?
The ground still emits the remaining smell of petrichor
like the weight of memories, you try getting rid of, but in vain.
I look outside my window hoping to get a taste of autonomy,
I think now I have a stomach full of confinement.