Painted pipes peel shades of bark and dust
Corrosion fills empty blank voids
Six stringed musicians play loudly to
Drown the crowded conversation
Paths of wood meander and hinder
The uprising of four-legged flat backs
Beautiful shapes of glass take the forms
Of various angels and harlots
Short and stout, tall and tense
Sticks with gold and legs of ceramic pillars
Captured dead framed with smiles
Relived past memories of tin
Congregated segregations of philanthropic throws
Life as we know it
Belongs to the youth
What do you see when you look out the window?
Do you see only two colours?
That of green and grey?
Grass and sky?
Do you see what is real and what is not?
Truth be told or imaginative plots?
Can you see the trees?
The way they mock young soldiers?
Brave and straight?
Or do you watch the cars instead?
Moving fast. Stopping. Starting.
Or in a steady movement rolling towards a destination?
Do you look out from the window?
Or do you shut your eyes and create your own world?
Is the window open or closed?
Do you enjoy the sounds along with the sights?
The leaves acting as chimes when the wind pushes them together.
The crackle they make.
In the winter when the snowflakes fall effortlessly,
And the pitter patter of the horses hooves through the heavy snow.
Or do you prefer a silent view in hope to bring peace?
What do you see when you stare out the window?