The eyes are the window into the soul.
The windows at the store are the keys into the goods.
Both are penetrable, but often not.
When either breaks it's normally tragedy sometimes liberation.
We peer inside to the treasures that are within.
Curious noses pressed to the cold flat surface.
What is it that these windows desire to keep out?
The coldness of life?
Prying hands but never eyes?
Is the window a sanctity or a form of insanity?
Darling don't stop at just peering at me.
reach beyond the glass window with your soul.
Don't adore me from afar but from within.
because my glass window was shattered the moment I met you.
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Comments about this poem (Glass Window by renee martin )
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