My Window

I’ve never thought to wonder

how to make clear a window.

Those who own them appear

to simply “be that way”,

with hearts and lungs adorned

splendidly upon their bloodied sleeves,

a morbid spectacle as any.

Still, the poet turns to rhyme

and rhythm to make use of time

to make known all the spectral hopes

and unsung dreams and heroes ‘thin his mind.

And if he should be a she

then surely she will do no different,

for the poet is an breed of thing.

When one may say “the rains came down”

they could mean gloom and clouds of grey,

where in another frame of mind they may

speak of the watering of thirsty souls,

empathed with dirt and dust of soil.

So encrypted is the heart

of we weighed down by aimless thoughts

we want to fancy more than fact

when faced with truth or love.

Ask not I to make things plain,

if fact or touch is your desire.

Neither still if you crave goodbyes,

i’m fresh out of those.

I promise it’s not out of disgust, or distaste,

I’m simply one to guess against my would-be words.