Eyes through the Windows.

Metal objects controlled like puppets, neatly compact into straight lines. Their engines are running out of their minds, becoming piercing alarms. Flashes of reds, yellows and greens control their every move, rugged roads lay ahead with no end in sight. Footsteps thumping down the streets as people dash to catch buses, trains and trams. Whilst a yellow explosion is paused, unnoticed like the blank canvas of oranges, yellows and blues. Its glow is always unique and prominent, unlike the polluted air which flows in between anything and everything. The beaming light shining through makes my eyes well up with tears. The beauty that sits in front of me is hard to reach, and instead my reflection stares back at me. A trap from any socialisation. A barrier. Made to keep you safe whilst you sit still viewing life itself.   Still showing the same view, but builders tweaking it to look ‘perfect ', the lights that used to be trees are still where the birds sit. Sadly, that's what they still call their sweet home. If the meaning of sweet was becoming tasteless and bitter like that sour taste in the back of your throat itching to be set free. Everything’s been covered to look ‘perfect’ as if perfect can be the same on every street. Has God himself copied and pasted the streets to look no different?  The only thing special looking out my window is the weather, feelings of joy rushing down those childhood stairs. Trying to stretch my feet all the way so my fingertips touch the door handle.  Dizzy excitement of touching that pure cold ice; still able to keep warm from the joy and love instilled in all of us. One look through the transparent piece of glass made to keep us safe.