An Introspection

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.

I used to draw flowers when strong desires in me sprang,  To maneuver things to have my way.  I coddled those desires in me for they were almost definite and such promise kept me impelled. They were scattered here, and blotched there,  However, they were outward.  Those evocative desires punctured every stub of confusion and left me aching for more display, more flowers. Those plump, pretty flowers would pucker publicly and throb with clear pulse,  Almost loud, almost definite, almost tangible.  The flowers withered. They wilted, uncared for.  They wilted upon strenous trials of colouring them with self-indulgence,  And not letting them breathe at their pace. / Today, a wall exists where used to be flowers; my hands no longer draw them.  In trying to paint geometric, precise, absolute figures; the imperfect, raw, sincere flowers sagged.  My hands are now entrapped, not engrossed.  I view the outcome from this distance and refuse to appreciate the brick wall, but cannot appreciate the f

Threes and twos, and ones and fours  Supported shelters, pouring cores  Shoes that fit and steps that pound  Gaps and measures all abound.  Refuges framed with cornerstones sore  All is fleeting, love galore.  Reality's brimming, the measures overflow  A series of thrust, on this heartless borough.  Love galore yet ephemeral all,  Life speaks to me in a solicitous drawl.  This town is defunct, thrusted in rigor,  Sculpted tribute of memories, most disfigure.  This solicitous drawl that life speaks to me in,  Vexes my spirit and sears my skin.  Disfigured memories of besmirched hues,  Coarse wounds, left free for blood to ooze.  My skin is marred, my spirit drowned,  But in the periphery I walk, of an untoward ground.  With exposed wounds, through innumerable doors,  I have been losing count on these cutting floors.  In the periphery I walk, of an awry ground,  In shoes ill-fit and steps that pound,  Been losing count, on these cold floors,  Threes and twos, and ones and fours. /Hea

A bird decided to stop flying, revealing the queasy helplessness emotions in her graceless willing, falling in the silhouette of decay . All is fleeting, feelings too  The sun is in hiding, The birds are cold. I hear the wind sing,  And witness the renaissance of dust, And the stars within. These shrewd assessments,  All dissolve and go astray.  Another summer day, is come and gone away.  /written as a society task with the last line given to us as a prompt, among many others.