Such hypnotic eyes,
How they pierce my flesh -
She is nothing if not
Refined,
And how mercilessly do
Those sensibilities
Draw secrets from my lips.
As a man, I fear
Divulging my sensitivities,
But she handles them gently -
Those hands are ever so soft
For a warrior's;
A mercenary of time and space,
She does not know
Quite where she fits in -
She knows only where she doesn't.
Onward she marches,
Seeking something more,
Someplace else:
I think she knows
That nothing shall ever
Feel like home, not again,
But she deserves something more
Than to have her soul, her body,
Become the home
Of weeping hearts like mine.
She is worthy of holding the universe
In the palm of her hand,
But she is more than a saviour -
She is a woman.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
