Her eyes, wide open,
as they've been drawn to be.
Focused and staring,
but she can't really see.
Sketched with a steady pencil,
held by an unsteady heart,
emotionless and still,
windows too far apart.
Windows to the soul, they say,
windows clouded and opaque.
Windows blurred with drops of rain,
from raging storms on sunny days.
But what good are windows,
when there's nothing there to see?
Windows are just windows
to someone such as she.