What a beautiful prison to be trapped in 

—the storm of a lightbulb.

Deep beneath the ground lays the thickened

bottom of the glass, the roundness of the bulb

flattened. Looking up, past the oxidized 

topper of the bulb, the sky lights up 

with colors beyond deep blue. Only a select few

have been chosen, like rare animals;

to be auctioned off due to their rarities. Leaving me,

in the gathering of rushing winds. Few ever come

in contact with the clear, outer glass

of the bulb that contains me. Cool to the touch, 

Within holds my world, small white pebbles

scattered around, overgrown prairie lands

engulfing untouched areas. Familiar smells 

as the weather shifts, brewing storms. 

The dull sun, only swirls of oxidation where lightbulbs absorb electricity.

A constant dusk light when the sky is slightly faded;

like brushstrokes across virgin paper. To the left,

heat beats against the cool, untouchable glass. To the right,

icy air licks the crystal-like bulb. The unseen,

behind me, is filled with midnight black skies;

where the two mix, eternally enemies.

Far beyond me. Stuck in the season of storms.

  Far beyond the glass is wild land, undisturbed by any,

  running with the wind rather than from it. 

Sakura Fagan (she/her) is a senior Creative Writing major who loves writing and pulling inspiration from nature and her life.