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Standing in the empty field.

Surrounded by the dying straw.

I look at the stormy sky,

I guess I’m trapped.

“There are ways,” you said.

Up to the sky.

Down beneath the fence.

I look at the stormy sky,

I think I’m trapped.

You blame me for ignoring the ways,

but do I really have a choice?

I don’t have wings to fly towards the sky.

I can’t trick myself to pass through the fence.

I look at the stormy sky,

I won’t cover my eyes.

Up to the unknown.

Down beneath the covering.

There are ways.

I look at the stormy sky.

Trapped.



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