Among the fields of clumped grass,
see me the misfit, sitting a solitary tree.
Help me create gates to keep dreaming at bay.
Instead reacquaint me with reality,
a screaming beacon for loners like me.
And we who are gated will naturally vie
just to see life outside brutal boundaries,
exhaling when we witness compromising beauty,
resonating respiration which brings us pain,
for we cannot join or partake, rather must refrain.
Instead, ready angst waits, followed by
the world’s withdrawal and always its apathy.