Unlit Window

[Poem XXXI]

There is such envious joy in an unlit window.
The lights inside perhaps just recently switched off,
that had lit a scene of laughter and vivid colour.
And the warmth within cooling—but only for a time,
until they all return in joy, laughter and vivid colour.

**

There is such tragedy in an unlit window.
Silhouettes stand motionless and cold,
unmoved and unneeded for far too long.
They stare at themselves and at nothing,
and out to a world that goes by and goes on.

M.M. — Augustus, November MMXII