Friday, January 8, 2016

The Window

The room was hers, hers to paint.

It was all for herself, each wall, each shelf,

Was hers, and hers alone.

She lit it with her own sunshine,

She stuffed it with her own joys.

It was a medley, but it was full of her, 
Of who she was.

Each smile was a trophy within it,

Each tear, a crack in its toughened walls.

The ceiling was a riot of colors,

Each hue a representation,

Of what lay within her heart.

The walls were embroidered

By the grubby prints of muddy hands,

With the mindless squiggles of an artistic hand.

They were the canvas

Of her vibrant memories.

She was satisfied within her room,

Within the littered floor of a childhood

Spent dreaming of the sun and the stars.

She was satisfied within her room,
Within the ornaments of her mind.

She was satisfied, until

Her eyes landed on the little ray of sunshine

That peeked through the curtains.

It unsettled her, it piqued her,

It made her wish to look afar.

It scared her, it intimidated her,

For she could not imagine

Pulling the curtains apart.

The outside was scary,
She was safer within her chambers.

Yet curiosity, curiosity beckoned her

Until, she found herself fingering

The hems of the smooth fabric
That separated her from what was on

The other side.

She pulled it back at last.
What lay behing, left her agape.

At first, it seemed but a mere reflection,

Of her own little haven full of fantasies,

Yet, the more she looked, the more she saw,

The little touches, the subtleties, that made it

Far, far more dearer to see.

The window showed her, not just

Yet another room,

But rather, yet another part of her.

She had found a room to share,

And a person, to share it with.