Our Sliding Existence

I am in the prison of my mind. I think it is the shadow of a sound. It seems to be so real. I think I hear the rude raindrops Shrieking on the asphalt. It seems to be only the eaves drip, Or maybe there is the clatter of Hoof-clipped stones And the scrape of gravel down. I see a light, I think it is a thunderlight. It seems to be only an electrical explosion. I open the window and I see everything unclear outside. I think it is the smoke from a burning building. It seems to be only fog in the air. I think your hair smells like imperial lily flowers. It seems that the lily blooms So beautifully in the vase when steeped In front of our window. I am in the prison of my mind, In our sliding existence. Poem by Marieta Maglas