How he waited, staring through the window longingly
Sitting there, bothered by everything – might it be a person or a bee
Oh, it was tiring, never seeing winter, dying ‘til the spring
Looking in from the outside, seeing everyone bound together by a ring.

For each new family never stayed forever,
He wouldn’t know – he came unto himself in December.
But what he knew for sure, was that when he awoke again
They were gone, and he had no clue as to the where or when.

In the back of his memory, he remembered certain thoughts
He thought such strange things all day, different from his lot.
They were supposed to breathe, live in harmony – having jolly good fun
Happy, pleased to do nothing but lounge in the sun
But he was different, this single one.

He thought himself a human – though he didn’t know why
Maddened, some days he just sat around, to cry and cry and cry.
The others thought this a wonder to behold
Though none truly cared, for they had no such blood to run cold.

If any of them could’ve said a single thing
He would’ve told them all off, back to their umpteenth fling.
For their were certain thoughts he, too, dared not admit
They would seize any opportunity to name him a dumb old nit.
Yes, he missed the gleaming white he had seen as a boy
Ensnared in an imagined spider’s web, trapped – slowly being killed of all his joy
Saddening, it’s true for him, what he does indeed go through again and again
A little bit of nothing, thinking himself a man.

But he’s sweet as a rose, cunning as ivy
Light on his toes, too brilliant to care for all of those creatures shrieking down there
Yet, he’s red as blood and blue as tears
A sight for sore eyes, though his words always fall on deaf ears.

Trying and trying, to find what he’s done wrong
Wondering, “Why do they not note it, my bell-ringing song?”
To appease his wandering mind, he follows torn logic
Except his methods never work, salt in the wound as opposed to a tonic.

Regardless, he waits by the window though with hope slashed right in two
Hacked down to little bits, through and through and through
Broken, ripped every which way –
Like paper in the wind, not ever caught completely, much less in a day.

He is tainted, straight down to the core
But as this is so, watching him is to many a bore
His soul is partially corrupted, making him thus wait
Thankfully, he doesn’t understand the meaning of hate.

Since he doesn’t comprehend, he never will escape
Walking in a circle, knowing naught of why those he shan’t pass do gape
He doesn’t know that though he sees the light of day and other certainties
He’s stuck because he turned the lock, turning it without a key
And – in any world – this is not to be.