TRAGIC Poem: The Late Realisation, by Bhakti Thummar

I am sitting near the window today,
The trees are a little too green,
The skies a little too blue,
And the buildings a little too red,
Surprisingly the bars on the window
Also seem a little too black.

Yesterday I was walking on the roads,
I broke the mirror in my bag,
The crystal seemed to reflect a million colours,
The broken mirror edged with blood,
But none of the colours were as bright as they were today.

Tomorrow I plan on visiting my mom,
Her tears are going to reflect our fractured bind,
The IV lines will carry the unspoken words between us,
And the mirror though clean now will still have a red tint.

What can the bars and the window do to me?
I can just step outside through the door.
What can the broken mirror mean?
It was just a slip of hand.
And what can her tears mean?
I am still reminiscing.

Is it perhaps that the colours are more vibrant only when I am caged?
That the colours seem unexpectedly unanticipated now when I am free?
And that perhaps the broken mirror with a blood tinge is the reason I have tears too?