Frames

Frames across a tilted plane,
beveled within
the lines
and designs

of the limits of their own domain,
held preciously behind
an inch of glass...

whose clarity blinds
and keeps out the bad...

The ugly, the loud, the poor
the tired, weak, and weary...
The ones who could never afford,
to live...

inside a cloud so freely.

For the illusion is far from free,
and the higher the frame,
the steeper the game,
and the harder it is for the world to see.

That just above the bustling streets,
of the city that limps but never sleeps,
float the frames of the lives
of the ones that reside...

just above the confines of reality.
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