In this box of ash I stay,
Powdered and silk, if I may,
Incognizant of the outside world, you might say,
Lost in my own realm, aloof from the social fray.
Alone and maimed I lie,
A prisoner of my own thoughts in which I fly,
Keeping myself to me, not letting the closest one to pry,
Because in revealing my true self I shy.
I live in my small ash world,
Shielded from the sour words people hurled,
In my own dimension I am constantly whirled,
So, in a little box I reside, alone and curled.
The ash is my dwelling,
Despite how bright the promises seem compelling,
I’m a hostage of my own life of grueling,
My world is not black and white; gray is all the gelling.