He Sits, eyes wide and occupied,
unaware of the world around him even if he tried.
Breathing pestilent air and musty smells,
He Sits under those fateful spells.
He does not know what he is missing, completely
unaware of how he could be reminiscing.
Sitting, Staring at a mottled, grey wall is all he knows,
no passion, no excitement, no nose for the delights of prose.
He does not speak, he does not do, he hardly exists in the eyes of me and
you.
But one day this changed, as this curse was lifted from him,
he began to see light, emerging from the dim. He went
Outside, and breathed the fresh air, took a stroll and went without care.
He had never seen this before.
Serrated mountains loomed in the distance,
clouds creeping over the peaks,
stabbing the sky like a knife.
A lowly mountain goat treks on.
Conifer tress and bright glade grass carpeted the foothills,
the valley seemingly diving into the abyss.
A mountain lion steers clear.
Further down the valley, a turquoise blue river ran through the trees.
This liquid soul of nature was glowing,
the sun striking chords of soft light on its surface,
spearing the rainbow trout with colour.
Here, there was no pestilent air.
Here, no grey walls.
Just colour, green, blue, brown and white.
For something so simple. It doesn’t get better, he thought.
