The Window

The sky above the endless fields,
Where clouds of pink succumb to black.
Off lying sights away will fade,
As Twilight’s Trolly runs it’s track.

And the only thing that came between the woman and the view,
Was the window.

Her hours spent in dreamless state;
A lonely role, an empty stage,
The lines to trace her broken face;
A Dying life in dour age.

For ninety-two a life she’s kept,
A sponge of joy, a rag of pain,
Is vacant now and void of view,
A sea of faces null of names.

And the only thing that came between the woman and the world,
Was the window.

She’s purest ivory soiled by fate,
An angel given broken wings.
And all remaining goals to reach,
Are feigning thoughts of joyful dreams.

A final look upon the view,
To save the scene inside her head,
And smiled wide, content for now,
As queens and all were wheeled to bed.

And for the rest of her life she will try, but never succeed,
To live outside the window.

by Jeremy D. Grimes

Comments (1)

The window is very profound, though it also gives me a sense of still life... I don't know if it's intentional. Liked reading through your poems.