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At The Window


I sit at the window
every morning
to see the subtle orange
rise in the east
And moments later,
lemon beams,
pure and free,
fill a dark room
but not the void in me


I sit at the window
every noon
to feel the scorn
of the scathing sun
But I still feel cold
and the air seems still,
morbid and quiet
Staying with me 
like an eternal fright


I sit at the window
every evening
bidding farewell
to the light
The crescendo rises
as the sun goes down
and the music dies
The only sound heard
is then that of sighs


I sit at the window
every night
to embrace a nightmare,
my friend and foe
And as it starts,
I look at the ceiling
to let out a cry
And wait for another day  
to come and pass by