Every window tells a story.
Some are beautiful,
Some are full of agony
Some depict stories as sinful.
I smoke up a cigarette every night.
Smoke coils out of my room.
And I wonder every time;
What stories will bloom
Here, in this very room.
Demons fight with me in my dream.
And my past mocks my future.
And no matter how much I scream,
My wounds find no suture.
My window also tells a story.
Of a crumbled, tampered woman.
She lures new men to her bed
Only to forget her worries.
She dances like a butterfly,
Like no one is watching.
She cries on her cold floor
Trapped in her visionary dreams.
Maybe my window tells this story.
And I wonder what other stories
Are told by the other windows.
Do they sing lullabies?
Or do they rise some brows?
Do they sing their owner's glory?
Or do they invite the crows?
And I keep thinking and thinking;
Till the clock strikes midnight.
Bathed in moonbeam on my bed
I just light up another cigarette.
Moonstruck 