The bottom two panes are tinted

The chalked figures,
Smudged together through the window.
The ones at the end of each line of black TYPE.
The small ones,
Peering over the crumbling sill,
And the beaten pains.
The happy lies,
For a glimpse inside. But the edges are dimmed,
The writing blurs, bleeding into the silt,
Collecting on the shore of a wayward isle.
They call us the dregs,
The pieces in their cabinet sauvignon,
The slurry at the bottom of their glass,
Dispensable.
Shattered if necessary.
People in glass houses should not throw stones.
They allude to the twilight,
To subdue to surplus population,
A layer of sludge,
As he gazes bitterly through coal tinted spectacles,
At the class, he will never be a part of.