Window Pain

Black and blue spores turn translucent,

Each speckled fungi unleashes a bittersweet scream of silent anguish,

pillaged from it’s home on my window pane,

where it had lived beside my melancholic years of similar silent weeping,

festering in my lack of motivation to pull back my black curtains and confront the world,

but every violent scrub erases the evidence that my mind ever deteriorated as much as my mildew painted windows,

and every squeaking wipe reveals my reflection, rippled across mounds of green and birds chirping at the golden luminescence above,

and there I am, my figure, backing away to admire my work, and myself etched across fields of flowers bathed in sunlight,

so contrary to my old cloak of dreary, grimey, dark, melancholia.