Through the Window

A mile beyond the wood-pained glass
Amidst tall glistening intimidating grass
There stands a boy with half-open arms
Meandering in his own hesitant charms
His face bares all, his eyes hide some,
His hands reach out, his feet are numb
He's ready to take off, but anchored well
A cheetah's blood in a turtle's shell
And the pastures swaying in the breeze
Make him feel like fallen trees
Yet there's a drive, but questions too many
The answers are expensive, and he hasn't a penny
Perhaps, there's hope, his head rises high
He refuses to give up, but maybe he's shy
He wants to write, but he wants to read
He wants to force, but he has to plead
There are tears across a pitiful face
Yet he exudes a fighter's grace
Cuts and bruises across a torn chest
and marks of subdued, but raring zest
Forgiveness on his forehead, a master's trait
But fear and suspicion for every mate
Pain in every anxious wait
For turns that turn up in his fateful fate
I see a mile of freshness stale
Sad happiness, and brightness pale
I see him distinctly, and I have a fair view
But, maybe it's a mirror I'm looking into.
Maybe, it's a mirror I'm looking into.