Conviction

Convinced
That perfection was in an immediate sigh.
Your sleight of hand confounded me
But nothing is forever.
Behind your smile you grimaced
Yet I gave in,
Ignoring implications of birds
Although they told truths.
I could stop nothing
And with you creating everything
I knew my world was soon to fall.
A necessary demise.
I had permission to re-live in this moment.
But not forever.
Nothing is forever.
And still I remain.

Inside Looking Out

From my windowsill I can see everything in color. It contrasts with the bleakness of the surrounding white walls and the dreary look of the wooden door and furniture of my every day surroundings. Outside there is a beauty unrivaled by any other scene, although one would not think so at first glance. Yet here I sit in times of need and revel in the loveliness outside, whether rain or sunny weather. Passerbys with haggard faces force me to dream of other lives, not so similar to mine which has been filled with good fortune. Some dress in what they can, ragged cloths sewn together, clasping their possessions tight, mumbling to themselves and begging for money through cardboard signs. Others are well dressed. They sometimes carry umbrellas to block the sun from their faces or raincoats to shield themselves from the torrent outside weather. I want to know where all of them are going and where they have been, to hear their stories and document their lives so people know who they are. They could teach me a few things about living... or perhaps not.

The street is pregnant with cars of every size and color, waiting impatiently at lights to get where they need to go. It seems everyone is in a hurry although the day is fine and the night even finer. If I could see the drivers I'd know they were glancing back and forth and tapping their steering wheels, faces contorted in agitation. The construction is what's really slowing them down. It takes up half of the street leaving one simple lane on each side. Men in brightly dressed colors and hardhats pay no heed to what the drivers want however, and lazily eat the sandwich they've been saving all day, probably one their wife or lover threw together for them because they were too tired to do so themselves. What do they think of all those people walking the streets? Are their stories similar?

Gazing downward I find myself staring into a backyard setting similar to that of a home. The grass is green and soft looking, inviting for anyone who'd like to play sports or just gaze up at the stars on a particularly dark night. A swingset is set out for a child, probably one belonging to one of the professors living on campus with his or her family. A lonely blue bike leans against the glass doorway to the left as it's been doing since I first took my look outside. It keeps from rusting by sitting under a small awning. A gangly tree serves as mild yard decoration and easily kept plants line the fence separating the yard from the half construction zone, half speedway that surround it. There is space to run, to kick around a soccer ball, to meditate, or to garden, yet I've never seen anyone in that yard. It's interesting to entertain what view I'd have of this bleak interior from the outside...