Prison Glass
And it felt like those prison days,
when the only thing between
is glass,
but oh what a glass!
That kept lives from living
in and out of sync,
connected only by the wires
that spoke of carbon tungsten,
so that the only voice
you hear was the voice
of someone who you used to know
and love.
It was no different then, nor now,
and maybe the faces have moved
in step with the days
or was it months?
That crept along like
thieves.
All there was to know
was in the words
that was said, or unsaid
and in the eyes that meant
everything else.
