The View From Here
The dust on the windowsill has been there for ages,
No one could care less if it remained the same for ages more.
The gunk is black and putrid,
It clings to the crevices of the peeling wallpaper.
Its fetid freakish tendrils corrupting the pale white shine from the window.
All color retreats from the dirt, succumbing to grays and blacks.
Hooded dust bunnies crawl down the walls to spread their filth,
To the far reaches of the depressing room.
They’ve somehow managed to traverse the solid glass window,
And mark the other side with grime and bird dung.
It will be a long time before this view gets any better.