The open window . . .

Familiar strains of music . . .
Float across the room,
A drift of cold breeze
scatters the papers,
disrupting them

From their stacked existences
Neatly arranged,
Porcelain presences look back through their
beaded eyes,
Happily trapped in their glass boxes;

Everything seems to be arranged in an inert order;
That open window,
At the corner, speaks to me
It beckons me to an unknown land.....


There, across the window,
one mouthful of sky now seems
over laden with dark clouds-
The golden chariot plays hide and seek through them;
Patterns change, yet the window stands open,

The dust laden sills, dingy, greenish walls,
agonize every
moment of my wait;


A broken chiaroscuro
of memories closed in that room,
Time mingling past and present
into an unknown mass of
incoherence -

That open window still beckons;
And I wait...

My Time's up ...my wait is over
though these dreams still come
when i'm dreary eyed...

My ensemble .. my identity is all but an alibi...
Hiding away from happiness ..
I'm waiting near the window....for the clouds to approve of my pain
I'm waiting to walk...to cleanse myself in the rain...

The window shows me the world outside....
All those faces ... with different names
All connected one way or another
To themselves though ... they stranger ..remain
I see two roads that that lead to my house...
and many that i discover each day...

The Open Window That I Look From ..Shows me that nothing forever remains. . .