I stare out of the musty Victorian window, 
transfixed on the dimming green leaves 
that cling to the long secure branch that grips for life 
onto the weakening weather beaten oak 
which shadows the grey cracked street below.

A knock breaks the crisp silent air but I refuse to move and inch,
Half believing it to be my weary wandering mind attempting to call me home,
I stay staring out as I glance a speeding car passing by in judgement.

I stare in contempt as I fix my eyes onto my faded resentful reflection.
Another knock and I swing round just to gaze with limp eyes at the locked door 
which shields me from men more in touch with reality. 

Four days and nights dodging sleep and human contact
Momentarily entering a convoluted dream as I blink,
It feels like an eternity of misunderstanding and wasted youth.

A single impatient bang rouses me to bring me back to the moment, 
I still remain motionless, knowing that the sane man, 
If that they are, will soon disappear back to their place of belonging.
I slowly turn back to the brightening window, 
No sense of time, no sense of consciousness.

I gaze through the leaves and wonder what stories have I missed while hiding in isolation. 
Blank unknowing once again takes ahold, crisp silence continues.