the eyes are the windows to the Soul.


this is for the ones with the masticated hearts.

rasp in their love and blood in their words.

for those who have forgotten the spherical hell

within and cast their bodies onto the carpeted earth.


those who paint their eyes with their Soul until

the sky is only a theoretical sheet between life and death.

eyelashes brushing in in in rapid shutter monotony

until it's only a blur of green and clouds.



when the earth unhinges its jaw and every wing of

love is as good as dead.



We are all lost by fire.


Extensive showers and fear instilled in scorched puddles,

70 percent could not extinguish

us, so we pursue saturated dreams; dampened

       torn edges.

Unconsciously attempting to rain away the fires that

were born with us;



the eyes are not the windows to the Soul,

lantern orbs light up the coals stored in our

weathered chests. but you will see glass.

it is not our mothers that know us best,

but the bleached warmth in lively tendrils

scaling our throats.


you will see stars upon glassy-eyed galaxies,

illuminated prisms in dense circle pupils,

attempt and blunder upon salt water fallacies.

no longer, no



perhaps this is when we lay ourselves

in the callous hands of Death,

when our lives have deteriorated to a bowl of tears

and a mouthful of dust.

the eyes are not the windows to the Soul.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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