A corner that welcomes darkness, a site for books and crows and castaways.
A pair of scissors
resting in my palm.
This is a game
of chance.
Because there’s a moment
where I consider,
painting them red.
But I’d soon run out of paint,
so I don’t.
She was asking for it
though I don’t owe her anything.
How bold she was,
standing there with
my face as hers,
dressed in blue.
If this is what dreams are made of,
I must be made of something else.
They say eyes are windows to the soul,
panes of glass in which to glimpse a person’s whole.
They say eyes speak with words untold,
pages never to be written.
Books never to be sold.
Some say eyes are orbs by which to see, and nothing more.
Those who adhere to one thing are destined to ignore,
for the eyes are so much more than glass, unspoken words, and orbs.
