16 April 2012
She looks out the windowpane, Fingertips on the glass. It feels cold against her skin, Frozen like the world.
She watches from her vantage point, The cars passing ruthlessly, As they all rush To unimportant places.
Slow down, she whispers. She doesn't understand them, Never stopping to notice The trees and the sky.
Snap out of it, they say, How can you sit for hours? Looking out the windowpane, Fingertips on the glass.
Glass • Opuss № I