My fists rage against the glass,
beating into reflections looking on
with vacant stares, unmoving.
I’m screaming when they point at me.
Were I a portrait of some magnitude,
they might show me a tide.
Could I turn this window into a mirror,
they might scream against my cage,
but they are not the kindred I call for.
Weariness walks in my stride,
and their gazes wander again.
Ever searching, for ever red.
Someone comes in,
cleans my fingerprints off the glass,
and vanishes as I begin again.