Waiting

I sit in the closed room in the middle of spring but do not feel shut out because the painted murals inspire that same otherwise dormant emotion when a brick crashes through the stained glass that gilded my prison with it's verigated, now shattered glass, I see a heap of sparkle that was a bird in flight, no longer able to imagine the world as it might be reality floods my senses shouting "mourn not, for this bird never flew, never knew of the bright sun or rain."
But, I will not forgive the hand that tossed the brick as I weep over hope now lost. Sunshine breaks through the now broken art revealing a world of science and swirling gases it is called the sun a voice informs me as I wonder at what is, not sure how this all effects me. And who is the father? for all things beget and all must have somehow been conceived. No. Sun, not son, and no one quite knows how it came to be.  And the only pushy force now is my own curiosity. Trying to make it's way to my lips to ask...