bars keep out the in

and here was the moment that the opening of a window, ajar it was made, and here it was where when the things that are just mere things are shuffled and scattered and slipped out and away, they don't come back, and are gone, and holding them is memory, it is a wasted thought to bring them back, so they go, and the bars go on and everyone feels jailed for a minute but sleep comes easy because a house becomes a womb with faded bootprints and closer bodies