The window
Touched the ceiling and floor
Both pristine and immaculate.
Itself, the window
Half pristine and immaculate
I watched you gaze beyond the window
Blinded by the reds and oranges
While black steadily marched
And surrounded the window - just half.
I saw it
Your eyes were a burning forest.
Not pristine nor immaculate.
You turned to me, eyes meeting mine
I am blinded by the
Specks of vibrance scattered
In an endless sea of grass
Both dancing to the breeze's soft song.
I wouldn't see
The reds, and oranges, and blacks
For the windows
Are both pristine and immaculate.
YOU ARE READING
Musings
PoetryA book encompassing my brain. Filled with poems, sketch stories and everything in between.
