I am captured here
behind velvet walls,
winging birds outside the window.

Time is my bunk-mate;
Gentle Regrets
sweeten my tea:
the passon fruit has decayed
and yet
I make of this an odd contentment;
even Lonliness can be a friend
if you have no other;

I made of this my strange concoction
which grows upon you such
that its deficiences
can seem in time strangely beautiful;
but this, too, is the lonliness of knowing
no one can understand
this odd beauty
but I.

So I smooth the table cloth
and dust the furniture
watch the dust motes fly
glittering momentarily;
the sun behind

illuminating them;
creating the illusion
that dust flying
is a star.

And each one is I
fluttering ever so gently
to the envitable ground
but retrieved every now and again
by gentle
household breezes
which I stir
to save them.