Down a white alley
I run, not stopping
even to
glance
at the fortunes in the clouds
this could spell the fate of the girl
I hold in my arms
I am a poet at the side
of thousands of windows, yet
the girl is the one who
speaks beauty
"I tire of wasting time,
of knowing that it is real,
just look out the glass windows."
I do; and what I see has not yet left me.
What clouds there were, were sugar
tinged with blood
then, I knew
why the girl had been at her window
She, as I, has become a poet
and therefore it is her job
to bend the words
the sight of the clouds fills me with dread
for now I know this poem has a
DOOR,
a locked door.