STANDING ON THE WINDOW.

I’m sat at the breakfast table,
Only it’s midnight,
And the blinds are up,
And I can see my reflection
In the window pane;
The vines outside
Are dancing with the wind,
And leaning steeply,
Passing through my reflection and
Lashing at my shirt,
And that’s probably just.

I’m sat at the breakfast table,
And it’s breakfast time,
And the blinds are up.
The window is full of the day
And the garden side.
The high bird house
Has sitting tenants
That are pulling at ugly things
About where the heart of my
Reflection would have been last night,
And I can see the justice in that too.

By the time the sun climbs
Directly above
I’m not there anymore to see it,
And there’s glass all over the kitchen,
With a piece of me through every fragment,
And I’m not returning to correct it.
The course of my aim is settled,
Unlike the lines of my reflection
In the wind.