Shrouded in my boundaries,
stranded in this shroud
composed of saints;
they are the everyman,
the ordinary dreaming
of life beyond life;
they swirl around my stasis
as my walls remain dormant.

Every dawn, the skyline
would shift its meaning;
sanctuary or hell?
Abode or cell?
The sunlight brings
a spell of drive;
yet I’d find myself bound, 
tethered to dusk.

Awakened nocturnally
by nocturnes of reflection;
seems I’m lost 
in my own meditations.

Give me the signal
to move ahead,
to move about these walls
and slither about these
old comforts to find
new aspirations;
burning that which
remains static to me.

Several hands are held out
to receive the oasis,
whichever meaning 
it has to hedonists;
my palms are held inward
to give self-made alms
and crucial songs 
of intangible energy.

Awakened internally
by external inspirations;
seems I’m found
in my own reflections.