Beyond the Picket Fence

They walk over their trimmed green lawns,

within lines painted white,

the Sunday smiles and folded hands -

their world is neat and bright.

They see me camped outside the gate,

with doubt upon my skin,

but no one asks what brought me out,

or why I'm not back in.

Sometimes they come - with a plate of bread,

and cautious gentle chat.

Their kindness rings with nervous pity,

unsure of what I lack.

I miss the warmth, the easy way

the speak of peace, assured.

But every time I try to stay,

my conscience is obscured.

I'm not so far - just steps away -

but the air here is so dense.

They feast and pray, while I decay

outside with no defense.

Sometimes I wonder why I stay,

by a gate I cannot cross.

It just won't open, I'm not let in...

I'm destined to be lost.

So here I am - outside, alone -

I cannot see an end

Perhaps there is a life to live

beyond the picket fence.