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.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
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.