Through the iris of my pupils, One sees a story.

An image wrought into lines of glory.

The identity of its plot lies deep within.

A measure only truth can identfy with.

Its setting is fantasy plunged into reality.

The theme leaves a memory, so sacred;

Yet naked if seen with purity.

The trees sketched with its ink ingraved,

Plants a picture at the tip of lashes laced in rain.

My life is fortold in the eyes of old.

Look long enough, and the burn of reading

Might give you a glimps of a story worth meaning.