Prowling in the night, out the window and down the ladder,
And into a life where he can finally get out and live.
He used to be content with sitting inside instead of out, the former, not the latter,
And maybe for the first time, he can shake out all the bad thoughts out like a sieve.
Wandering amid the streets, this is home -- out here, in the freezing cold of December.
There's nothing else he would rather have:
Being out here warms his heart while the wind berates, reminds him to remember
that beyond the veil of imprisonment lies a life of humor and laughs.
He wants to embrace it before he needs to leave, go back through that window,
But he knows that this will be finite, his time with them.
It will be them, not just him, or just her, it will be them -- oh.
He knows. Do not mention it, please, or his throat will fill with phlegm.
He fantasizes instead of taking the moment itself.
The music overpowers his voice, and it cannot come out.
It never wants to come out, despite how good it might be for his health.
Because once it does, the tears will come, and they will be loud.