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The trees are gently swaying as the sun sets in the west,
Workers crammed in cattle cars to give their day a rest.
I smile at the traffic jam; stagnant lines of idle cars.
Looking out my window, through the bars.

The architectural wonders from the masters from the past,
Sit draped behind these concrete slabs of glass, in steel cast.
As I wonder who the crazy, or the so called sane ones are,

I'm looking out my window, through the bars.

As I dwell in isolation, I behold a curious thought,
In my minds intoxication, I was never so distraught.
I was shielded from this insolence, as I now gaze at the stars.
Looking out my window, through the bars.

Now the evening's reached its prime, with couples walking hand in hand.
Their faces, so sublime you wonder if they understand
That beneath those painted grins lay unforgiving scars.
Looking out my window, through the bars.

A siren breaks the silence as the trauma team arrives
The dregs will wheel in another so called wasted life,
Another poor romantic, who might have strayed a bit too far.
Looking out my window through the bars.

Now that gentle sways grown violent, as the winds they blow a'gale,
But from where I stand; it's silent, and the view is getting stale.
As I gaze upon this world outdoors, like a bug inside a jar.
Looking out my window, through the bars.

Learn more about this author, Joseph Aaron Friedman.
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