The windowpane — a dull empty space, useful for nothing in particular unless you're imaginative enough to make the plainness of it sit prettily in its place I suppose. Where else should a pane be but beneath its window — an indent on the wall, or in it, either way those things are left unthought about by most, on a daily basis. It is either of no relevance, or we never have to bother with it anyway if we are not housed.
This is the latter. Though this doesn't mean that persons who aren't housed are any less thoughtful, perhaps they are inclined to be more so, for having all the time to let their minds wander about the streets. As day turns to night and so on, though none of this matters, it is not the point I am trying to make — yet.
There on the windowpane sit several pots, filled half-heartedly with shrunken earth and withered flowers of some colour. Their colours drained out of them, as if in their retirement they tired and aged. Their expressions ring blue, having lounged until their timely death. The warmth of the sun's light nor any water could resolve them - their necks hang low. The head nearly decapitated like the neck of an abused dog that has outgrown his collar, what a cruel fate it is, to feel yourself fading.
The pots alike the flowers crack and wilt, until their veins are drought of fluid, all olive-tones dried stiff. These flowers had been destined [to die] from the moment they were plucked from soil. Taken from the their earth to decorate our homes, to die and be replaced. To die and be replaced. To die and be replaced. That is their value. We make it so. We do not believe we kill them as much as we do not believe that walking past a homeless person is inhumane. As we excuse ourselves with the idea that had we given them aid they would've used it for self-destructive means.
Who are we, to judge if they are deserving? Could you cope with it? Living on the streets of some city you once thought you'd concur only for it to swallow you up, it coughs you up like tar. Is this not what we do with our war heroes.
Who are we to decide if we are any different? Removing ourselves, to 'other' them? When have we come to see something else within us in the reflection of the mirror? In the end the plants rest, the soil in the pot cracks dry, and the cat beds it. Giving its bodily warmth as comfort, unbeknownst to itself.
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon A Time, Time Stopped
PoetryDon't let your mind wander too far, for it will lose its selves - soul, thought and body. A soul that has lost its body is like a cat straying until it cannot pick up the familar scent of home anymore. It never returns, falling slave to a human God...
