The Windowpane and Me

Everything has a soul, both animate and inanimate alike.

I sit by the window,

contemplating with such ease.

The sky lacerates it's wrist,

and I watch as the rain drips down.

I tear involuntarily at such pain and sorrow,

so why do I still feel happy?

Is this gloomy atmosphere my haven?

I grab a pen unwillingly

and my mind dances without missing a step.

The parchment is drenched

with words of bliss

and tears I've shed involuntarily.

So why do I still feel happy?

The windowpane cries, too

or so it seems.

Does it feel happy just like me?

I wonder what it's thinking about?

It, too, looks at ease.