366 Poems: December 4th, 2016

Open Window

Sometimes the tinted windows wash away

and the glass, un-obscured, shatters–

upon the figures in the pouring rain,

singing, their words no more than patters

on the surface.

Songs, like poems, are tinted as well

and only hold their weight in metaphor.

But still, in the dark, they hurt like hell

when every drop you presumed a downpour

is a bullet.

Now between us the window stands ajar

like the doorway to a young princess’s dream

and though the road I see is long, and far,

I fear the view, as it seems,

is not so clear.

That we’re both screaming through the rain

as a thousand tree branches break the glass.

And though I know I’ll suffer through the pain

in our promise to survive, I ask…

“Can you hear me?”

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