Boxed shell

How real is this fact That I’m out here, able and intact Underneath shelters and shelters of Clothes, blankets and thick walls Preserved in like a specimen Segregated and closed off in a pitch black cellular chamber That’s silent, faraway, and forgotten Awake, with a buried heart that wonders Whether there’s a man in a

Touch

I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to see it I just want to touch it, smell it, feel it.