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the wind is blowing and the doors
waiting to be opened,
the night's sitting in its full aura
owls as calm as the darkness surrounding them
tulips sleeping in the balcony
raindrops glistening over their petals
and i?
i'm the silence of the valleys
echoing my mother's laughter
on the loop,
i'm the distance between the syllables
of the poem that sings of miseries and the
coordinates of the point that
bring a smile to your face,
i'm the moment i spent with my father
staring at the universe, listening to him
articulating the secrets of the
life and feeling the desire with which he used
to plant seeds of his experience inside
me which i wish i
could see in their full-grown form but
i'm the space that breathes
between the vocables of
suicide letter and the quill which
bleeds heart on the parchment and questions,
"what would you do with a heart having mere windows and no doors?"
Sam Oct 1
Glue my eyes closed,
Board up the windows to my soul.
Sew my eyelids together,
Ignore my heart's growing hole.
It sticks to the back of my throat
like peanut butter
It sits back there like a frog
and I croak croak croak,
but it never escapes my quivering lips
It never leaves me
It never makes itself known
But it hopes like every little insecurity I've ever owned
that you will see it one day
accept it one day
read bedtime stories to it
feed it food from your dinner table
cloth it as it wants to be clothed
support it like you are the keystone
to my door
to the world, I deserve to belong in
yet I still only manage to look at it
from the blurry red plexiglass windows

I hear voices from beyond it
Be brave.
Be brave.
It gets better
little one.

But when I look out that window
I hear the depressions and suppressions of a people
gunshots and violence
and somewhere off in the distance
I hear the singing laughter and joy

Be brave
Be brave
little one

but they are as far as my voice is trapped and away from me
and as tangible as the frog in my throat
Stuck in Pandora's box
with a million others just like me.
Rainy days and dripping windows,
Once again, beside my pillow,
I lay upon my bed alone,
But in a place to me, unknown.

Day two, beyond the first “hello’s”,
Clouds still hover, and even billow,
They say goodbye to each of their own,
They thunder and sprinkle before heading on home.

After their hastened diminuendo,
Most clouds scatter among the fellow.
I compare to them to see how I’ve grown,
knowing rain brings a harvest from a seed that was sewn.
It's funny how a moment of
can become so unforgiving.

Watching the rain
through a window
through the windows
to my soul.

I swear,
sometimes I can feel the
world turn.

Slowly lulling me
into realizations,
some of which I wish
weren't true.

I think about the years,
both good and bad,
the quiet morning,
the ones I love,
the ones I lost,
the state of the world,
then back to the rain.

Violins & cellos
in my mind
the whole time.

Another sip of coffee,
another cigarette,
another thought,
another song.

This is the strangest world
I have ever known.

How it ends
I do not know.

it never will.
©James Dennis Casey IV
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 ***** 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.
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.
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 ****?
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,
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
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