Out there in the world, finches chirp
about the weather, clear and sunny, 72.
Shadows shrink as sunlit flowers reach
for sky, their joy transcendent.

In innermost sanctuary, my soul heart grieves,
its grief inexpressible, untranslatable to action, words.
Sans love, I remain incapable of casting shadows
so that you might see me here,
read the writing on my walls.

Seeing nothing but a dim, misshapen one,
you pass me by, deem me just another deaf-mute,
misfit in a world of song, never understanding
that simple recognition might cast
light upon deep despair.

You return to surreal world of artificial light,
chat about the weather. Others appreciate ability
to communicate in you; you speak not
but disappear in shadow as I reach.