The Window
— poem
The window, an open eye
in the silence of the room,
stares out at a world
that does not pause.
Its frame holds the promise
of what lies beyond,
a canvas of sky and street,
where moments drift like dust.
Outside, the sun speaks in whispers,
leaves dance in the languid breeze,
and the distant hum of life
is a lullaby I can never touch.
Within these walls,
I am both spectator and prisoner,
the glass a barrier
and a gateway,
framed by the ordinary silence
of my own confinement.
Yet sometimes,
when the light bends just so,
and the shadows move like ghosts,
I catch glimpses of freedom,
faint and fleeting,
like dreams slipping through my fingers.
And I wonder
if the window, too,
longs to break free
from its own transparent cage,
to leap into the wildness
of the world it watches.
In the stillness,
I am both the watcher
and the watched,
holding on to the hope
that someday,
I might step through
and see the world
from the other side.
The window, a silent sentinel, frames the shifting scenes of the outside world, offering only glimpses of freedom while I remain within its transparent confines.
As the sun charts its course and the wind whispers through the curtains, I am left to ponder the divide between my quiet refuge and the vibrant life beyond.
Each day, I watch and dream, caught in the paradox of observing a world I cannot touch, hoping that one day I might cross this boundary and embrace the freedom I see just beyond reach.
