When the storm clears away, and I the wind am calm, I like to listen.
Like an obedient dog loyal to its owner, I listen to the boy, my friend.
In his room there is a small stained-glass window that he always keeps        Closed.
Through which he softly speaks long-winded soliloquies to me, as I struggle to attend.
He trusts me, knowing I secrets keep. That what he says will be            Gone 

"They ask of me what I do not want. Expect of me what I cannot.
Yet like a young child to its mother, I fear to disappoint.”

I join (fuse/amalagat)and united, yet I am forced to stare at the glass window, trying to understand and hear the boy, never able to see him
For the window glass is stained with a scene that illustrates his window-pain
A fish in a river unable to resist the force pushing forward.
As the stream deepens the fish progresses going downhill, dodging the eroding pebbles being hurled.
I hear: “Soon I will be one of them.                 Drifting away from where I want to be.
Never my own combination, or permutation,
I become their machine their will, their mere creation. I see myself as an abomination
with a depressed, and gray, twisted mind, an internal accreting tornado
Tossing me around, around, around.
Oh my dear friend what purpose is there to live, without pursuing a dream?"

For his entire life the small window has allowed only my chill to permeate.
Yet I ssssstill whissssper, hymnssss of hope, explaining that the tempest whirls about in chaotic order,
With him the fulcrum looking for acme
A cruel, confusing place, one I frequent, outside comfortable norms, inside a hurricane, a disastrous storm.
I dare to dream of shelter and security, of coming inside, of opening the little boy's eyes
To determine our own path in a land with clear skies, unskewed by others.
Yet to enjoy what he wants, his fear, he must defy.
For now the window is closed.      It begins to rain.       I begin to cry.

He tells me that living inside is a cage with cold, black, intangible bars.
That his room is his cell, his solitary confinement, that he is willingly perpetually stuck in,
unable to see that he is self-impaired.
Locked in his cage, without a key, unable to open his bedroom door.
He speaks of pressure. Of how he is in the center of the Earth with all living eyes watching
As he grows, his world shrinks, and soon he will be forced against his cold black bars
Crushed, humiliated, alone, unable to see even the brightest of the stars

“Oh wind help me find the key to my prison that I am looking for in others.
The key that will release me from my   isolated    captivity.”

I answer, but he cannot hear.
So I howl and blow, and bang loudly on the small glass window. The boy hears me, and takes one last deep breath before
Opening the small window, and climbing onto the sill.
Bending his knees, preparing to jump, his heart is completely still.
Then his unlocked door opens and he hears "close the window there is a draft"
He responds "never again", and for the first time in a while, he laughed.
I now saw the other side of the window, the boy painted himself:
A salmon taking a faithful fearless leap        upstream.
And I the wind caught him in my arms
Now he is part of the shining bright stars.