Hour 5: The Window


Through the window of wilted dreams, 

I have often jumped in poetic streams

Out my father’s house and into his bookshelf

A little elf, outgrowing 

The tiny window 

Its light still seeps in, 

But doesn’t shine on all of me

‘Consider yourself free’

Every words, on every page screams 

And I am blinded, because some pages are wilting 

Tilting their head 

In approval and disdain

Adding to my heel, each word makes me taller

The ledge seems smaller

Small enough to jump

And this time I don’t bump, 

Into a shelf, a book or a word, 

I have unearthed my roots.

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