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  • Writer's pictureShane

The Window Speaks to the Satellite

You soar.

I sit,

restrained by plaster.

Consistently looked through,

rather than looked at.


I want to see more than

this room,

and that bush.


I covet adventure.

I want your open space.


Oh satellite, can you see me

in my shackles,

in my prison?


Can you see me from your

celestial perch?

From up there,

do I shimmer?

Do I shine?

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