One’s Own Windowed Walls

It was but a window then…

The skies of Jersey meeting Manhattan,
painting neither peace nor rage,
held by clouds of gauze-laced boundary lines
giving temporary haven to the rising ethos.

Horns.
Voices.
Clangs.
Jack hammers.
Disturbed ether of mass chaos.

All of like worthiness,
seeking like me a window
that would give release to unbridled fear,
copious love,
rampant loneliness,
and a child’s hope inside insistent ego.

Like all windows however…

One either glances through,
contemplates the layered images
renouncing the obvious,
or allowing transparency to direct.

Often…

Acquiescence pulls shut a curtain of doubt,
whether ignorance,
hostility,
vengeful composure,
or guilt by default.

It was but a window then.

Such a long ago year
where the attic of discovery
atop a theater
brought forth a youth’s
unexplored portal.

And like a tenuous interface,
the glass separating fantasized freedom from fearful humanity,
old visions became shattered,
giving birth to a challenging epiphany.

For windows provide not answers from gifts outside,
but instead provide a reflection that asks we look within,
find the echo from light afforded by shadow’s lateral arabesque,
and embrace the inner treasures so often left unrealized.

Giving ourselves permission
to embrace the hidden gifts
while smiling at the drifting amorphous gray outside,
giving little of answers,
only joy in the new questions.

Why do windowed walls provide such giving revelations?
Why does reflective examination often give One’s wisdom’s renewable birth?