a window to your soul
the cold has promised to come
and all I can think of
are the windows
the second story is burning
the attic fan turning
attempting to cool
that which never will
I told everyone who would listen
I don’t belong here
not where glaciers melt
before my very eyes
not where arctic blasts
are merely sticks of dynamite
and in the meantime
all I can think of are the windows
wide open
inviting the inevitable
may two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
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