It's been said that eyes are the windows into the soul.
But what of the world beyond the windows?
Care to explain that, perhaps? Of course not;
You'll simply utter the cliché:"the world is what you make of it."
The world is a reflection of my own windows then, is it not?
But consider windows where glass is blackened, stained
Always and forever by the soul. A soul unrequested,
But to whom shall it be returned?
What then, of the reflection?
What then, of the world?
I'd much sooner smash the glass
Than behold the darkness my windows portray.

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