My Window at Home

I talk of my troubles to my window
That opens its conscience wide for me
To see, know and trust without fear.
The gaze that meets the eye as I speak
Shows no sign of a sneer or scheme
Or of boredom or nothing suspect
To make me stop halfway through my tale
Or make me throw up my arms to the gale
To carry me far to the unnamed dale.

I see a tree or shrub that bodes no ill
Or a stretched lawn that bears no tale
Or a fountain that dances to the gale
Or a harmless landscape most like a dale.

One’s open window trades no ear
With a spying shadow lurking near
To let him move tidings I fear.

My conscience keeper, my window
Frets not as my tale rambles
Or when i twitch with pain
When my memory starts to rain.

My friend leads me on to unburden
The weight of my soul feeling no qualm,
Without telling a soul how mine grew foul
Due to the work of a persistent ghoul.

It lends me air to fly my woes through
And light to see my way through.

It has no guile to rebuff me
Or any gall to spite me,
Listening, lending a shoulder,
Caressing with the fingers
Of the wind flowing by through
The halo of its frame cupping
Rays of angelic light, delight.


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