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.
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