There are bars on my window
That mars my view of the park
The trees don’t talk, or listen
Like me, they just are
At times of high winds they whisper
Each one its own orchestral aria
Sometimes soft
And then with crescendos
Like passages from Holst’s Mars
But mostly as soft sad laments
Yet now stillness reigns
Somehow seeming a motion
That defies movement
Empty swings plead for children
As if they have an understanding
Of solitude and loneliness
A passing stray cat stops
And stares
With a look of apprehension
In eyes as dark as its fur
Its coat blacker than its shadow
For a fleeting second
We look into each others eyes
Then it quickly scurries away
Maybe it could perceive
The bars that imprison my soul