Blurring, shifting, morphing together.

It wonders when the streaking colors will dim,

And pleasures will be allowed to unfurl. 

Eventually the frenzied inferno quiets itself, 

And the window sighs.

Now it can finally play,

The destination has arrived.

The window knows no bounds, constantly looking with hope,

At the ecstatic lands scattered around, playing by themselves.

It grabs its favorite toy to go join, yet never makes it,

Since it's "time to go home!" Let's go, no time to mope.

Our window looks out at the now grayscale landscapes,

As time doesn't stop ticking, but everything still moves.

Farther and farther away the poor soul is pulled,

Attached to a chain of wishes, an unbreakable tether, that knows no escape.

Decades pass by, our window sits, collecting dust.

Held down by an anchor of hesitance, 

It remains sedentary with its thoughts,

Starstruck by wanderlust.

Suddenly, images start to change,

And visuals readjust.

Colors start swirling again,

And scenery begins to rearrange.

The colors come flooding back,

The window is anything but overwhelmed.

For it is feeling the joy it longed to feel,

Understanding the love it used to lack.

The window sees the landscapes of the past fly by at hyperspeed,

No longer corrupted by shade, but full of warm colors.

Our window of dreams has opened its curtains,

And with it,

The world's.