April 27, 2008
By Edward Brann, San Diego, CA

Through the window sill of dust and dried crustations of weather past I see the clouds upon in which our dreams float up to hearts desire. The clouds we fill full with tears and hopes of the life we believe in.

Upon this window sill sits the children of the future, flipping their coin into the well of innocence until that well runs dry and maturity forces them upon their path. Their hopes lifting them up through the grime of this window sill as I but lay absorbed in the darkness of the shadows.

Upon this window sill I sit for my dreams have dried upon this wall in which I cannot pass. Until the day I reconcile, breathe the air upon the earth, and stop the watching from this window sill I lay forsaken to it.

For action takes the place of hope, replacing it with certainty.

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