Poetry About Confinement

Morning enters through a measured square. Dust travels freely in the narrow beam. I count the bricks, then stop at ninety-nine. Beyond the wall, a bicycle bell passes. The mind keeps building fields no lock can hold. Even a caged hour leans toward open air.

The scene turns slowly in another light. I count the bricks, then stop at ninety-nine. Edges soften while the question sharpens. The mind keeps building fields no lock can hold. Nothing is solved by looking away. Even a caged hour leans toward open air.

Morning enters through a measured square. Hours pass, but the image does not leave. I count the bricks, then stop at ninety-nine. It returns us to closed rooms, restriction, waiting, interior freedom, pressure, and the hunger for open space. The mind keeps building fields no lock can hold. The day continues with a more attentive heart.