Poetry

The template had the fault, 
I was buried alive. 
Brick by brick they erected the cell 
around me. 
I could see only the reflection 
of a moon at night 
in my glass of water. 
 
During the day sun peeped through the cracks, 
was hurting and very disturbing, 
forming a skull and crossed bones 
on the walls. 
 
I watched a piece of sky 
as a hub of pallisades. 
I planted a word in that hole. 
 
After one seed, there were many 
echoes. Starting in the distant hills. 
I was rising in red fog.