For some years now I have walked past her window,

She is possibly a widow,

Through the pane I witness pain or so would seem the way,

As she sits in the same slumped position each and every day,

Within a room dawned with decoration of the past,

The framed and pictured memories on the shelves are vast,

Something deep within me wants to reach out even more,

To talk to sit to listen to knock on her blue door,

To introduce myself before the angels come to mourn,

For in years to come they will clear the land and her window will be no more.