There is a window. It spearates me from you: Your labour from my rest Your patience from my haste, All the demeanours portrayed by you and I. This window is of fabrication, However, staining in ability. All said and done in redundance, This existent(?) window between you and I Is what keeps me from looking into your eye. Break, break the soul that belongs to thee, Break break system and let me see.
Looking back in hindsight, I see images Opaque and assorted in no harmony Slipping loose from this unclasped grip. Sloppy moments, now you're lost.