With the empathic vacuum
Of mouthing prisoners
And sunken reality
Stand tall
As the scythe of solitary
Stained existence swings
Over fields of golden ears
The crows break the perfect blue
With silhouettes of patchwork
Feathered call daintily crawls
Flinch only in the wind
Tears spill but for joy
For within the bubble of ignorance
And deliberate quiet
Perhaps afraid that the mirror
Will be as real as the sensation
Within the cold grasp for bettering
Against solid walls of polished jet
See the wooded path
Watch how it cares not
But see how it grows