and the train tracks on the field 
   never reminded me of cows or freedom
   but a vast world of grey. 
 and the eyes of the dog loomed up at me 
   sadly. I knew exactly what he 
   wanted to 
the thick painted walls that plastered my 
   view keep yelling words of dis-empowering.
   my heart is small and my head is 
   weak and I don't know I can say no 
   for long. 
when did it become more to be
   melancholy than to be decades inside the 
   devotion; of 
   life, of love, of purity, 
      of a connectedness much grander than 
   when did it become more to be
   dead or 
   than to be out there, 
   at home. 

Published by Charlotte Griffiths