The Windowsill

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The Windowsill
by Curtis Johnson

Each day my waking mind struggles to unclose the lid locked eyes of my sunken face.

Slow are they to open to a sensory world with little mercy toward the weak, dying and slow of pace.

I think sometime of what I will leave behind. If I could, what would I will?

I choose to turn instead to the endless plays upon the stage in the theater of my windowsill.

There as daylight becomes, overcomes the nightlight it is the final act.

The calamity of humanity unfolds, upon the one upon the many condemned to life spans' exact!

Hurrying all without knowing, in similar cadence like a dancers' chorus throbbing within their own thrill!

Watching the drama and the comedy I forget the pounds I've lost, as I gaze upon the stage in the theater of my windowsill!

I don't regret the choice I've made though of fate I would choose another!

Resentful of the piety in society who in their self righteous cruelty says my lover cannot be a brother.

The blood that is kindred to me, come to visit, come impassioned, come congenial, cloaked and hidden in late nocturnal chill!

Yet all of these, it is my death bed is what they fear, for all one day will play, audience to the stage in the theater upon my windowsill!

And in these my last days I sent my love away, yet true love even death cannot quell!

Yearning with hopes unexpressed, shining bright until the last T-cell!