She can’t leave these rooms, she comes and goes in and out of these rooms, but she can’t leave them. Winds along corridors, she saves a space for all she carries. Strange to see, while winding, there’s a place she climbs, climbs into blind alleys with manufactured alibis. It all turns into agreement, promises, trusts; all broken. The way home seems longer; Because some way it really is. It was the calm, of those around me, when there’s something, that’s beyond sufferance, dwelling in the skies it appears in the rain, as charcoal grit, disconsolate. Clouds bond in a low moans from clouds forming ramparts, faces of relations appear, somehow I witness them we get along, even, when I’m wizened by despair. I manage a victory cry I write it down awash, in green effervescent ink . The cry gnaws inside until others must test it’s presence. Then, it gets plowed under, no one bows before it. She swims in these rooms in some kind of peril supplies her dear infant with a flux of new tears.