she is
a blurred polaroid
taken by shaky hands
and nervous grins
she is
a record player
spun
twirled
scratched
left to dust
they are
cassette tapes
which once were
neat black ribbon
cased in clear
plastic
now they are opened
unraveled
unknowingly vulnerable
we are
woven tapestries
frayed at the edges
which once were
golden strings tightened and pricked
now we are nothing
but a heap of wool
and twine
she is
a square picture
tinted in sepia
she is
a radio
blasting noise
scratchy voices
repeating verses
omens of storms
YOU ARE READING
Looking Out The Window
PoetryTrapped inside a sad lonely building, I let curiosity consume me. I look out the window. Outside the window many things happen, some of those things are beautiful, others not so much.
