Beneath the dome of glass,



Knelt a figure ill and dry.



Gapes a few cracks, the skin,



Tunnels of scar slithering.



Rain launches on the dome.



The dome. The mysterious wall.



Sounds of outside stay dead,



Eternal silence settles.



Laden wet was the soil,



Yet the figure drinks no bit.



The gift of tongue and ears,



Was left behind long ago.



In the head it thinks of



Heaven's gate opened wide, hush.



In the palm it holds air,



Motion a forgotten skill.



On this timeless island



Age and weather cloud its eyes



Till the day it lays spent.



Lesson it never learnt-



Stagnancy is venomous.