My Window

If eyes are the window to the soul, then what is a window?  If anything, my window serves its purpose as an outlook towards the world. Out my window I may see the stars come and go, the sun rise, the moon's glow. But as for the scenery's soul? Outside my window, I see the seasons change. But for the better? No. The suburbs endlessly expand upwards and outwards, reaching new horizons around the world. In the artificial light, the stars grow dim and at dusk I see--rather than gold--a rusty brown which taints the azure skies. The brilliant colors I used to see grow dreary, faded, dull... I see outside my window the muted beauty of what was once an idyllic place. But inside the safety of these chilling panes abides the cynical me who must come to terms, face-to-face, with this blemished world.