Window

Life has a way of looking,
as a heart melted in condensation on a window,
holding itself contempt in the crash 
of the seas outside, like
a plethora of words circling mouths
in the transparent echoes of being,
crushing the sense of enlightenment;

I latch the sediment under the roar of the waves,
onto the window panes of the soul,
rearing its ugly head in changing temperatures,
of life, of living,
among the tides,
on the window,
the slithers of water
look like tears
against the
crash
of the window pane,
with life,
just looking.