A face behind glass,
everything locked twice.
Each moment,
a fragile lace domain.
 
The jagged sheers
of those who see a number.
Not the poet, the father
and the lover – shame on you.
 
An imprisoned body,
but not the mind.
Each word softly speckles,
the love given by a glorious few.
 
But things are made new,
and sometimes – made right.
In brittle showcases,
we few show dignity
and humanity.
 
My pain, and lost days will wilt.
But I will address the fog,
and those tilting windmills.
And talk, and write –
of this splendid isolation.