Three Windows

Three Windows

In a mind might be carved three windows,

Translucent, opaque and well the third, its unbarred,

One must remember these are windows, and our human form, our mind -the confinement,

Through the translucent window, beams reflected, bouncing off numerous wedges,

Tainted in colors taken away, ignited in colors given away from scenes and souls, and windows afar,

Reach the soul, no, not yet, gliding only though a netted vision, graffiti of the known,

The soul reads the world in this light, through tinted eyes, etching lines of right and wrong,

But those lines forever crisscross to frame a mesh, another window in the soul,

Every wrong has a human weakness;

Every right has an imposed, narcissistic tinge wafting from it,

So many dots at the intersections of these lines, it’s all discrete and none can confirm a story,

A story narrating the bible of a world divided in right and wrong,

But the mind searches for that point of reference to unfold a story,

And hence it strives on and on to walk on tiptoes stepping only on those points,

The opaque eyes see nothing, only graffiti that that has been learnt and has blackened it eyes,

The walls of the prison say you must be the thoughtless, mad, soulless soul,

And thus it feeds daily on the satisfaction of being just so,

It sees no light; it searches for no light, it knows no light, as it knows the mind sapping bible by soul,

Then there in the unbarred window,

 It sounds as though it might see the quaint beauty and horrid insufferable weeds growing in the garden,

A garden that stretches beyond the horizon,

Alas, one must remember the light is still painted in streaks and rays of many colors from a zillion,

None show its true form, and none exceed the limits of existence in that form,

The light reaches, bright, blinding the soul with questions one too many,

A mind that knows nothing, sees all it can see, is still engulfed by the sounds incomprehensible,

Colors whose meanings, whose representation, the soul seeks to find,

Lines of right and wrong are blurred, streaks of thoughts clash, and answers found are turned to zilch,

The narration to the saint who scripts the bible is written, scratched,

Rewritten, remaining indecipherable,

And hence walking on and on,

 Eyes and soul wandering to places through the window unbarred, confined though in its human form

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