Window Looking
From deep melancholy
I can see things are still moving.
Droning buildings, persons and some
pales of persons (inside), animal airs,
and walking phantasms yearning
to be beautiful.
It all seems within my touch
but lodging too much
(I couldn't win the glass)
With this parallel palm's (pane).
A day never looks the same—
For my cutting hunger to tame.
Fingertips cold; old;
Pressing on heat— that an injury
meets.
Pining for my reflection
to be seen; by cities; by people;
(by me).
Copyright © Paige Hind | Year Posted 2023
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