But I seem normal, don't I?

My prison cell

Is a brilliant hell. 

With food and game,

Away the days drain,

And I dare not go outside

For I hear the world is wide;

I try to see the wind blow

From behind round windows,

Yet the feeling of dirt 

Is as the void beyond a flirt—

Postulated and approximate,

I've seen it, I've sat across from it;

Emotion that is second-hand—

Clothes from a now old-man,

Worn and stretched to form

The body of a muscled norm—

I cower inside the fabric,

A phantom in my own life.