"Your eyes are like a painting tonight."
I remarked, not breaking my gaze.
We sat still upon a simple bench,
Brown, wooden, and sturdy, in a room
Surrounded by stroked windows.
These windows, installed with a brush,
Enthralled every person surrounding.
They, alone, stood gazing, wondering,
Which one they wanted to take home the most.
One younger boy, around our age,
Picked a pane off of the wall
And gazed upon it silently, grinning.
"This is the one." he said.
He sat down on a plastic bench
Not far from us with his chosen painting.
The object withheld within his hands
Transformed then into a beautiful woman,
Fair and gorgeous as could possibly be,
Yet the young boy frowned,
"I prefer blondes" he told her.
Though her back was turned to me,
I could tell she shed a tear at this.
She raised her hand in defiance,
Let out a shriek, and hit him across the face.
With a loud crack, which hooked everyone's eyes,
the bench crumbled beneath him.
He fell into the floor with a thud,
And the framed woman clattered on the floor.
I looked back at you, smiled, and told you,
"You're my favorite kind of painting."
And your smile made me sure,
That I had chosen the right one.
YOU ARE READING
Not From Chicago.
PoetryThis is a collection of my best poetry in my opinion! I hope you enjoy, whoever may paint their eyes over the letters and words I've arranged! PS-This book includes poems from "A World In Words" by yours truly. Go check out the other book, if you li...
