The Woman at the Window (a poem)

The woman sits at the window

she’s always there, she stares

at the outside world

her sallow skin a testament to an indoor existence

terrified to leave the ivy-covered house like

a cat that fears and is fascinated by the outdoors.

Her lips are deep blue, her hair is ashen

she wears a shawl, even in warmer months –

she’s not old, no

she’s a creature from a storybook

resting in the darkened room

in her doom-soaked appearance

waiting for something that we –

mere mortals – will never know.

(Photo by Andrew Buchanan on Unsplash)


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