The thing that stands there

is the window
and there's a man on it
he's waiting for the man
with the panes made of sight
on the window of the heart
in the house of pain
his threshold is spelled
the spell out of the hints
the corner loneliness
unwipeable trace
to settle in a word
chiseled in a clock
a second counted down
on the wall that beats
where to come in with a whisper
can only be done by a step
clear of any thought
bursting in the word

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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