As I walk past
Drive past
Sit on a bus going past
I am overwhelmed
By an infinite number of windows
Full of lives
Each one
Full of stories
Full,
of life

Flaking paint sash
Exhaust grime white.
Half a net curtain,
watching
the back,
of a chair.

Dead, duck-egg, blinds
Reflecting a dirty, green, world
Where the brightest blue,
Turns to fuel, on water

Our single, small, sun
Hanging
From its tiny, grimy, universe
Coughing out light
Spitting it,
over the furniture

A vase of dried flowers
Guards the entrance
To a permanent autumn

Your private society,
Stuck in the glass
Shadowy, faded, purpose,
Once clear.

A ghost
From across the street
Slides
From pane to pain

There,
on the squares
Frost, lives forever
Impossible chess,
White wins.

On the glow
Orange brow
Float up,
rush of air
Through,
the ceiling

The whole room,
Desperate to escape,
Pressed up, against the glass
Legs and eyes follow us

Vertical pond,
Perfect ripples,
Sunken treasure,
peers through the waves

One pot
One plant
Inky blackness
Still,
We have hope

Propeller spinning,
in mid-air
Half way,
Through a journey

Two boys
Peaking, over the top shelf
One white
One rusty
Frozen
In anticipation

A baby
Grand
No fingers
No sound.
No tune.
No empty room

Light
In solitary confinement.
The bars
keeping us safe
From the monsters
Within

Then,
I stop
Looking back at me
My life
Behind My window
A single life
One story
Full
of life