Thirteenth Floor Window

There is a woman in the thirteenth floor window;

a silhouette brashly intruding against the ashen heavens.

She is a battered rag fluttering against the growling wind.

I am transfixed. The crowd becomes Rome.

I am ashamed to be human.

She teases and tantalizes the reaper.

She ridicules fate.

I am amazed, she has stolen my mind.

She is a mis-construed genius exploring self-destruction.

She is a fool, toying with her irreplaceable life.

The longer she perseveres the stronger she proves,

yet as the moments slip the weaker she appears.

She demands of herself to relinquish her hold.

Her adhesive hands affixed to the thirsty concrete.

Quaking in her fear she feels wretched.

She is everyone I care for, though I know her not.

She is all of my deepest fears.

The sky begins to weep for her.

The spotting pavement grows dimmer,

as I begin to weep for myself.

My chest is filled with wasps.

I can force my gaze no longer.

My soggy eyelids collapse.

In the blackness of my mind I hear it.

Upon that dreadful sound I realize.

I am hanging from my own window.

I too am wishing to let go.

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