Staring.
And I sit here, undeserving,
in a small flat
staring out the window, dear.
Thinking of patterns, and sometimes of regrets.
Staring at symbols, trying to see what the author saw.
Trying to be them, just for a second,
to glimpse the beauty they’d uncovered
by sitting in a small flat,
staring out of their window
thinking of patterns, and sometimes of regrets.
More in Art
Comments from the old blog (2)
Recovered from the Wayback Machine of the old site after my back-up servers got black-hatted.
This poem is beautifully recursive. And now I feel a little silly.
I love this.