Swathed in a sheen,
Complacent with normalcy.
Browns and blacks with white,
Juxtaposed against my dormant insides.
Contrasting continuously.

I saw the real world that night.
Through the window,
My face at the glass.
The pull of belonging.
Eight floors up.

I wanted to be there.
To break through and fly.
Above that bureaucracy,
That settling for less,
That death at the dawn of the day.

Leaving behind only;
A twisted mass of skin
And broken ideals.
To baffle, bewitch and tempt
Stragglers to follow after me.

I thought I was getting somewhere
But I lost my way again.