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
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.
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