Poems

Anaemic Eyes

I was born with the eyes of a lost traveler,

solemn grey ringed with desolation.

Eyes that were as glossy as the magazines I read,

about pretty girls in sundresses.

"Sad eyes," my mother said.

Perhaps I'd always had a little sad in me,

reminisce of what was to come.

Eyes that changed with the wind.

Eyes that sang to the broken-hearted.

Eyes that spoke to some but not to others.

How I wish they could have spoken to you,

but they didn't.

It was brown you wanted

because those were the eyes that they wrote songs about.

There will come a day when my anaemic eyes will sing a hallelujah,

but not for you.