You bend down and pick up the crinkled page that I wrote this on.
You see these mysterious words and try to picture the anonymous writer; you are encapsulated.
Meanwhile, I walk down the hall after a long day,
inside a fog. I am encapsulated.
I leave the building and look out at the world in front of me.
By everyone I see, I am encapsulated
I pretend that I don’t see some, but I say hello to most.
The instant that I smile at their comforting, familiar faces, in my mind, they are encapsulated,
but as soon as the people pass, all I see are empty spaces in the outdoors
between the holes in the landscape. I am encapsulated.
I look down at my watch.
In that moment in time, we are encapsulated
I walk up the steps and through the doors, and as I infiltrate the entry, I pause to take a breath.
My lungs expand and I push out my rib cage in which my charred heart is encapsulated
I plop down in a desolate corner and I close my eyes.
Inside the darkness, I am encapsulated.
You toss this sheet of paper into the recycling bin and walk away.
You walk down the hall, move on with your life. In this simple action, your existence is encapsulated.