Behind these eyes, the windows to the soul, 
I view a troubled prophet, standing battered and cold.
The questions in his mind burn holes thru my own 
Craving to understand the answers. 
Debating on how long a heart hurts.
For some its a month for others an eternity
Sabotaging love at the first degree.

A heart beating vessel to vessel, ventricle to ventricle. Sharing tainted blood from her highness the queen. 

Lost in deep stares cast from the almighty. 
The prodigal son has returned. 
A deity of creation mistaken by some as a jester in trick clothing. 
A face painted mask to hide the pain that lies inside. 
No amount of colors or shades can hide the fact that his eyes are still exposed. 
The windows to his soul are still open, 
The wind rustling papers of unfinished rhymes, and poems lost in time. 

Strive as he may, the windows remain open. 
Leaving a breeze to linger within. Inviting cold fingers made of air to gently caress the sleeves of pages still left undone. 
A book without a title. An author. Or a spine. 
All lies untouched. Awaiting creation to bring forth the end. 

This jester, the creator, prodigal son, or almighty,
He lives within his mind, awaiting the arrival of the tides.
Longing for the answers to fall upon his paper, or drown within his ink. 
He loses sight of relativity. Slips from insanity at the brink. 
Losing hope in romanticism he clings to something real.

A thought. A feeling. An emotion so fickle. 
Where does this heart lie? 
Within who's hands could he trust a heart so fragile? 
His own rough and calloused fingertips, attempting to grasp and grip. 
Or a pair still unknown. Experienced only in the night. A soft delicate touch of a keeper of hearts. 
Experienced enough with the sanctity of trust.

A mind too advanced beyond its time could not distinguish an answer.