by Siddiq Islam

Inside the trunk of every tree,
Within each rock and each closed shell,
Behind the foreheads that I see,
Are chambers where I cannot dwell.

No skyward path can I sustain,
– but neither can I breach the floor.
I’m grounded to this surface plane.
I’m bounded in by Nature’s law,

And in the homestead, bounded still.
Built walls, shut doors I cannot pass.
Mirrors won’t open at my will.
What is it like beyond their glass?

What goes on at the solid centre
Of a chair? or desk? or bench?
I’ve tried but simply cannot enter.
This is my restriction.