I dreamed a Life where living was nothing but Dreaming
I walked through mirrors room to room as my mirrored self
Walked by me his eyes downcast so as not to know his future
Or show me mine.

Going into town I strolled in and out of Shop Windows
Watching myself there across the street wondering on the meaning
Of all my other selves reflected and refracted
Swimming through light. Separate journeys but one destination.

Are we so many? Bounced window to window down the street
Do we rush ahead to a future which changes before we arrive?
Or lag behind to notice what we missed perhaps the first time?
What do we get up to elsewhere on our Time-line?

Later shaving I looked myself in the eye and tried to see
Thought of being in the mirror and separately trying to be me
Only to make myself smile only then to make myself wonder
Which of me smiled first..?
The frost is still there,
Throttling the rhododendron leaf,
And ice stalls the dissolve
Of the stone-like snow,
Yet I am happy.

The sun-rays are almost Etruscan,
Filtered low through lace and blind,
Like that chink of sunset on Irene’s hair
Sad “couleur de feuille-morte”.
Yet it is sultry.

I can open a window
And breathe the warming air
Finches flock close, careless,
Now desperate for food
And pluck menescent fruit
Off an ice-bound branch.
In the distance, a cardinal sings.

Thick drapes are drawn aside
And geraniums strain toward the light.
In a nook outside the door,
An old cat basks on a corner of sun.
He yawns, seeing me, and strolls across the snow.

All nature seems to wait, but poised,
For the final unfettered token.
Will it be a sudden, favonian breeze?
Or the robin’s unrelenting noise?
Telling us, “Winter is broken”?
This is pretty obvious: it was one of those days in winter which seem so close to spring.
Billie Jul 17
Sitting under a glass ceiling,
watching rain pour down the sides of the cube I'm trapped in.
It's cold,
yet warm,
you can feel it radiating off of the windows.
The sides of my face feel warm.
There's no lighting,
just what's coming through these windows.
Windows.
Always windows.

Leaves are the windows of the trees,
the windows of the season.
You can always tell if a tree is good by how it's leaves look.
The windows of nature,
of being.
Or maybe I'm just looking too far into it.

You can see all these different colours in skin.
Pinks,
yellows,
blue,
green,
orange,
this delicate fabric woven from threads man-made.
The windows of humans,
our skin,
our multicoloured paint palette.
Our bodies are used,
aged rags that we cart from room to room,
weathered and cracked like old books and some cultures praise age.
Why have we decided that being alive for a long time is ugly?
That we change into these caricatures of ourselves
that we make fun of,
dreading the experience
and the life
and the love
that we have yet to discover.
Our skin is the window to our age,
our memories,
and we have deemed being open,
ugly.
There is an incredible grace associated with age.
That dance of bones,
fluid yet still,
that only people with years and years of emotions can emulate. Your brain filters out the boring,
the mundane,
and you’re left with what hit hard.
Your first kiss.
Your first heartbreak.
Every line on the skin is a memory waiting to be shared.

The windows around me are steaming with the heat of my breath. The heat of the people around me as their bodies keep them warm. They’re windows into other stories,
lives that I will never fully hear in detail.
We can never relate every single detail of these windows to another.

And sometimes, windows break.
i'm not afraid to get "old." we gain beauty.
I'll never leave my windows open.



The cold always finds a way in.
break her
drain her
seep her of her worth
beat her down to nothing
relentless fists of words
she loves him too much
she doesn't have the strength
to walk out the door
with a smile on her face
my ex boyfriend used to open my window and crawl in at night thus the title
is it any wonder
social constructions
damn the soul?
i am born.

entire constellations
ingested by men
who stole the
braver buck.

is it any wonder
the higher numbers
damn the low?

artists hide their holy
proper alkahest
swirl into the torrent
eyes fixed on the hole
going full Atropos
by slashing tethers
and teaching us to fly

is it any wonder
construction kills abstraction
encrusts the brilliant stone
in destructive gray?

is it any wonder
emotional capacities
have been bled from me?
they must bless the fallen
they must make Halal
the bounteous
human feast

an exoteric world rises
while one esoteric burrows
in bright dark underneath.

two parts of a whole broken
banished to disconnection
when dichotomies could meet.


. . . SCAN COMPLETE
c May 15
If we could see
What windows can see
As they gaze out into the night,
Would we stand there amazed?
Perplexed and quite dazed?
Or simply be filled with a fright?

The windows reflect us,
Their glass won't perfect us,
But still we have reason to stare.
Because windows they show you
Yourself like they know you,
And unknown they catch all unaware
-c.
Özcan Sh May 8
I see something through her eyes
It is as if the eyes were windows
A window you can see what's behind there
I look through her beautiful eyes
I could see and feel her warm heart
Although I don´t have her in my arms.
She looks so happy but little do you know that she's slowly dying inside

Frozen in a stance where she looks quite pleasant and delightful

Her eyes seem so joyful but if you really look closely you will probably notice that it's lost it's luster

No one will ever notice the pain behind her smile

There is a distinct beauty in her sorrow
A picture is worth a thousand words
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