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.