Captive Of Conscience

You shut to it― 
the window, on watching 
a row of walking stones 
without feet. 

Pouting, 
scowling― 
in a mile of tears. 

(A pink lotus spills 
the colors on water) 

Let me talk 
to my wilderness. The 
script was incomplete 
in shadows of greyhounds. 

You crawl on the grass to find a four-leaf clover.