By James Brennan
The large window was sunken
Into the wall at the end of the quiet room,
Or did it just sit there?
It depended on the perception
Of the viewer, the one who was
About to reveal all, handing over
Our deepest thoughts, our secrets
To the attentive window.
The window had taken on
A personality of its own,
Becoming mother, counsellor,
Listener of confessions,
All in one.
What we liked most was the fact that
It never answered back, or scolded us,
Just listened, helping us to offload
Or advising us in our most
Many of us would begin by just
Looking at the scenery on the other side
From which the window separated us.
Some of us would hesitantly walk up to it,
Subconsciously knowing what we are about to do.
The window would invite us
To share a troubling thought or two,
And consequently the trees and the
House would disappear
Allowing the images of our thoughts
To be on display, not for the world to see,
Just a private viewing
For the accepting window.
Suddenly we find ourselves totally absorbed
In the window, its powers of seduction
Far too enticing to resist.
The thoughts we had never dared to voice
Comes spilling out from our troubled minds.
The window never seemed surprised,
And so we would tell it more,
Until our troubles had been recounted
Freeing pained beating hearts.
The window knew of many broken hearts,
Many thoughts perverse,
It knew of many great decisions,
Many arguments moral,
Just as many immoral.
Many of us would come to try and find ourselves,
Silent pleading to the window
To rectify our pasts.
Some of us were cured, some of us were not.
Some of us the window helped,
Some of us did not.
The window was always there,
Always ready to listen,
Or so we would have ourselves believe.
A gateway to ourselves
We rarely could resist.