I am in the house, imagining the way the world is
Beyond the windows through which I can see it.
Wind, it seems, assaults the trees. The sky is
Pale, a sign that it is full of moisture, very humid.
Far out in the valley, cars in knots move from
The office buildings downtown, out of sight to me,
To villages which once had been autonomous.
Gravity and better roads have moved them closer
To the city, closer in their own ways to a world
Which is tangible. My own exists beyond these
Windows, out of reach, not wholly there. It's only
Something I've imagined, and I'm only something
Someone might have seen on their way home,
A silhouette sketched onto glass, not worth
A stop, a pause, a thought. Imagined, maybe;
I don't know, and they can be no more to me
From here, behind the glass.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 30 times
Written on 2018-06-15 at 01:51

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