Through the window—
the leaves set,
the redness sets,
but a heart will never set looking through it.

Through the window—
painted pictures
with the faintest reflections,
but still enough to catch the eye.

Through the window—
are lives surreal
hoping to never see the truth,
but what would forgiveness mean then?

Through the window—
a long to feel,
to touch,
but your hand will break at the reach.

To the dreamer’s mind,
existence is only through the window.
To my own mind,
love makes me sad.

There’s an eagle hanging above the city
with sheets draped below the shoulders
and mouth dry from this famine.

There’s time hidden in the water,
if I could only learn to breathe
or walk on it.

There’s a lot left to see.
But as my eyes worsen the longer open,
I wonder—
what day is to make the best of?

Dear the softhearted:
Sympathy won’t come.
Mourn this day
and drink its poison,
leave the ones disembodied
to haunt and garrotte.

Dear the kindhearted:
Forgiveness won’t come.
Stand thin, bloodless.
Who’s waiting at home for you?

I am a mountain.
From where I stand—
this air,
these heavens,
are mine.

Love was your old friend,
well known
to be leaden and thick--
to conflict
a course of conduct:
a structure for life.

Love was your idea,
not to be explained or taught,
but to be imperfect:
Human.