from behind a closed window
the curious foreigner inquired
of that field and that meadow.
Like wearing thick winter gloves
and describing the feel of petals
Like lacking that sting of Love's
and describing the feel of nettles.
Curios from that strange place
Lay spotless upon his bench
examined at the slowest pace:
The princess to the trench.
He thinks and hypothesises
of that world encased in glass
always endless little surprises
smiling, he watches them pass.
The glass stands faultless
an absolute barrier between
the laboratory and the abyss
that churning intricate machine
Tumbling waters, falling thoughts
through that transparent sheild
He twists and distorts and contorts
that meadow and that field
There are better things to do
than stay inside and scratch
meaningless code so blue
- a pathetic written dispatch.