Stuck Inside

February appeared like a whimsical affair
and disappeared like a cheap cigarette
I'd abandoned the upstairs window where
I sent all those things I chose to forget.

March's overhang gives an edge to the rain
where I stand with the tips of my toes
I'd surmise near death if not for the pain
indeed it's life, and that's the way it goes.

I come to face sadness and restless years
in the low spots that fill up and reflect
my hesitations, awaiting till April appears
might then I be able to recollect.

Is it possible to be so vacant in mind
that heart takes priority with gnawing ache
though sometimes the pondering succeeds to bind
the fear and pain that only numb could make.

So I stand with no relation
on the edge of tribulation
wanting more but not knowing
how to get to wherever I'm going

with feet such as mine, made of lead,
I turn and go back inside instead.