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Edward Coles Feb 2017
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.

Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.

She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.

She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.

She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.

Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.

I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.

Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.

Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.

I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.

If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
Piper Diggory May 2018
Four walls; a pair of cupped hands.
Jaundiced like an open eye; an open cove
Prescribing solitude to those whom solitude cannot withstand,
And I choose this cold corner which is furthest from the door,
To be where I am not, before
Your proclivities become my own, I write. I write,
My window holds my breath and frosts the world,
The moon in his amber gown, dressed in chatoyance and spite,
Godspeed; dark, dark shroud for naked skies!
Six floors, walls, doors from you am I.

I couldn't write when the sun peered in,
Her inquiry evangelizing the specks of time left upon the glass -
I've heard it all before; God's shining face leaves none unloved (unseen)
but his spotlight has no starlet; so who can see me up here?
We can't see from windows, dear.
I'd live and sing for the cloudless hall
The nursery of misanthropists crawling on the grey cobblestone
And the lilt of the wind on the rose; through squares nice and small -
The peevish moth shudders at the sight of itself obscuring the day through the glass.
It seems we're always in the way.
one I wrote in Cambridge
Erin Jul 2018
If you’re ever sat alone in the darkest room of your mind remember that there’s a tealight on the windowsill.

Light that candle.

And that little flame of mine will glow so fiercely, emitting undeniable warmth and love,
that will dance around the room like a firefly.
Silverflame Oct 2018
The porcelain bird flew so very high
until its neck encountered with the ground.
From the windowsill to the edge of night
it died alone; with no one else around.
JA Perkins May 10
With folded arms on my windowsill,
I gaze at a starlit sky so still.
Amidst the awe of wishful wonder,
A question, there, I pose and ponder:
If the autumn moon that gives such light
were the eye of He who gave me sight,
would He not see a sheep asleep
while children die and mother's weep?
And if glimmering stars were angel bands
that laid to waste a wasteful man,
would I not pray that they be blind
to those I've harmed or left behind?

With folded arms on my windowsill,
I saw a tree in the farmer's field
The winter winds had stripped the oak
And, as I believed, I thought and spoke:
If winter winds, in all their might,
lay bare the oaks and fold their height,
then gone would be the leaves of deeds
that hide my thoughts of lust and greed.
And if trees that grow and bear their fruit
were saints that live and speak the truth,
then I would be a withered tree
with bitter fruit and wilted leaves.
In spite of pride
Seanathon Mar 8
Wisps of steam
Arise from dead leaves
To grace the presence of my windowsill
And the snow
How it blows and falls between
My future and me
But in the immediate reality of me
Is tea
Steaming Tea On A Windowsill
jane taylor May 2016
enchanted fairy

land upon my windowsill

oh thou mystical

tell me there’s another realm

profer me escape

Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
Finally a place to rest awhile
Smoked and frayed with a hazy smile
Focused on the next few miles
Towards the Great Northwest
Where I can finally rest

The aisles smell of cheap perfume
Like the long entrance to a tomb
Made of rose bushes in full bloom
Instead it's just the *****
Something I intend to use

The mountains still meditate
While I pay the motel rates
But I can't stay a minute late
I'll just skip the bill
Slip out the windowsill

I wish this road would never end
I feel like I'm back home again
But what's around this railroad bend?
Maybe I'll find a home
Or a love I've never known
zumee Jun 2018
Senses endlessly riddled:
the nanosecond-data-bullets
**** through too fast to be absorbed
by roots of thought
for eye of truth
to photosynthesize,
Like the flowerpot forgotten
wilting on a windowsill
outer leaves beneath the sky
fiercely lashed by heavy rain
soil dry as a desert:
Aghast, it feels itself
slowly dying of thirst in the downpour.
Jordan Rowan Apr 2016
Walking on the sidewalk
Down long, winding roads
Carving through the city while my mind explodes
I see a little girl wearing a velvet shirt with Marilyn Monroe
It made me think of you as I found a new place to go

Staring down the windows
Looking for a friendly face
Pushing through the avenues with nothing left to replace
I see a starlight sky and a million shining eyes
And I remember the time we watched them go by

Leaning on the windowsill
Listening to Midnight sing
Only the lonely seem to remember everything
I hear a country song coming from an open bedroom door
It was the words you sang when you couldn't take the silence no more

Here comes the morning
With the sweet summer sun
Barreling down the alleyways and shining down on everyone
I see a gypsy woman wearing a sundress painted red
As she twirled her hair I couldn't get you out of my head
Jesse stillwater Apr 2018
The woman in the window
  Looks out beyond the glass
Beyond the reach of her whispers
  Befogged upon windowpanes glance

Farther  than  the  bounds
  Her own breathe imbues
Out of reach her long fingered touch
  Tracing her murmurs on looking glass dew
Grasping for the shadowed artifacts
  Only time does nonchalantly drift past

Perched alone upon a cloud of silence
  Her thoughts eddy in soundless swirl
Spinning like dizzying shadows
  Swallowed by a thirst for light

The other side of window beckons
  Only she knows she’s looking out through a sigh;
Seeing no one familiar looking back ―  
  For what hidden jewels within abide

She dreams of dancing leafless by daylight
  Twirling beneath the whispering willows sway
Just a step away from being free
  Just a step away from feeling alive

With first step beyond imprisoning hesitation
  Crossing over the threshold of a dream
Through a liberating portal outside the glass
  Just on the other side of the windowsill ...

                  Jesse e Stillwater
13th  April  2018
Natalie Apr 2018
On the edge of my windowsill, I sit
And count the little black and bustling heads
Clustered down below.
There is Life

In the pinnacles of the trees I tower over.
I feel It, breathing coolly down my neck.
I am soon to be reborn,
My countenance now aglow.

This is my precipice.
I will soar down from my mountaintop
Bearing word of reclamation.
I will sow my bones like seeds upon the wind.
Skaidrum Sep 2015
You're cupping embers
    in antique palms
    that were meant
    to harvest moonlight.

Raindrops ghost over earth's skin
   nebula clouds map universal eyes,
   and you're just a masterpiece
   who is best friends with time.

Don't let those pianos play you,
   serenade and masquerade you
    because we all seem to
    fall in love with the right music,
    and all the wrong notes.

That friend lit a fire in your room,
   seven embers destroying
    unfamiliar wallpaper.
    You burnt your dream catcher,
     to cinders and charcoal;
     Now you pray for sunlight,
     all you've got is a lonely candle's flame.

But from the nightmares and windowsill,
   moonlight slipped through
         and in your palms
         you held
         my words.

Fire doesn't last forever, Leonie.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
A thud at my window!
An unseen moment was let go
For there I sat on a throne
Which bore an ephemeral glow.

(Though it soon had been heard:
Our mother's hand not in the least, is arbitrary
For she weaves such a gossamer web
That connects through all things contradictory.)

And so I rose above my windowsill
And found, a soft bird perched hither,
So close to this ragged forest
Brave—I thought—she;

She waited for an eye, so it seemed,
To meet with her's—indefinitely
Though it took an eternity for me being there,
The next gaze she stole and flew away from me.

A meaning I saw with no boundaries
For an incoherent silence was answered upon,
Like the yearning of a wave to find a shore
Only then, to retreat back to the sea.
jane taylor Apr 2016
The chill in the frigid night air
casts tremors of lingering shadows
upon an ancient windowsill
where a liquescent candle’s glow dims.

Peering into shattered mirrors’
silver hued jagged edges
that no longer reflect counterfeit images
a nascent paradigm unfurls in the wind.

Terrifying diminutive steps are taken
in directions au courant
enabled by years of refinement
in torrid near incessant fires.

An excrescence of wisdom
has broken the weathered mold
allowing a senescent wisdom
to shimmer a phosphorescent glow.

The venerable map leading
to this transcendent destination
is not read but perceived
through intuition’s faint whisperings.

©2015 janetaylor
address to soundcloud version
Ferns Jul 2018
The pile of books
The array of papers
They long-await
that ink will pour
on their vacuous
void of emptiness
For the deadline
draws near
Yet I'm still here
Sitting on my windowsill
Lackadaisically waiting
Certainly expecting
For water to descend
From the firmament
surrounded by dullness
where a mass of clouds
are there to be seen
sophia Aug 2018
The morning birds sing to the rythm of her soft heart beat under sky
blue sheets

Warm air exerts from each nostril along with a yawn from her
baby doll lips

Gold framed women in paintings above her drop forward
over the headframe
in envy of her glamour

And the sun gleams against her cheek bones creating a halo around what already is an angel
leave the lights on
and kiss the dance
of the seven veils
upon my windowsill
or leave me now
with the abject quiet
that the scythe
and sickle sound

i’m so used to being
in love with you
but the world is ever dark
and we sleep
in separate rooms
cosmo naught Feb 2018

half-illuminated day,

are you raining, i wonder

the blank space stretches

between the windowsill and me

even through the curtains,

when there is sun, it feels so sure.

why is its absence obvious

any less so?
leyla Aug 2018
we leave the crumbs of our breakfast
on the windowsill, where we can watch
the ants arrive, and carry them away,
to their hills at the base of the maple trees.
they can't talk to us, but we can sense
their tiny gratitudes.
skin against skin, and tongues against
tongues, the glow from our faces is just
enough for the moths to recognize, for
them to want to dance around our heads.
they bask in the light of our love, and we
know they feel it too.
i live to see you smile, the kind of smile
that shines so brightly, like the way a leaf
beetle's shell does, when the sun decides
to hit it in a way that's exactly right.
they don't notice their iridescence, or how
perfect they are.
Azaria Nov 2018
does my breath coat
your fears like
liquid courage
dancing like matisse's
naked cherubs
on your windowsill
when you think
about the future
i want you to
see the origins of
longing for christmas
and security
like counting
down the days
to finding you:
jamaican girl from
the bronx
i feen for you
like porridge mornings
and stew chicken
on better days
My soul sees yours, clear as day
singing softly but as quiet as night.
a candle burning in the windowsill flickers,
as I come to the realization that no matter what I do,
i'll never meet another soul like you.
I see you,
I can't help but wonder if my eyes decieve me.
I would exhale my last breath just to fan the flames of our brief existence.
The memories just wont fade away;
sometimes I wonder if I hadn't met a soul like yours, would I be as insightful?
or blind to the fact that I'm no longer whole.
Somewhere along the way I got lost in the echo.
Just telltale sign of what might have been, a ghost left for all to see.
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