Your Blue Eyes, Your Gentle Blue Eyes
Have I confessed from painful tongue, just how far above rare beauty you are?
Your eyes. Your soft, wandering, wondering eyes. I cannot live in such perfection.
Your whispers have torn my soul to crimson shreds, and on your bed I bow my weary head.
Why does your butterfly steps silently speak a forbidden grace to me?
And God, dear Master Artist, God, with easel in hand, paint your blond hair and tender hand?
Finding, losing, and questioning the summer sun; crying silently in a hidden room of blue.
Visons of your blue eyes and dancing blond hair are pure sweat on my short breath as I long
For one slow moment to touch, to hold, and see you for the spirit caught in a truthful rue.
You are not and yet you are
Scenting the sunshine and filthy steps of mine.
A time, a turn of a painful mind
Your eyes, those cloudy blue eyes
How easy I lose my name in your heart.
Then the eraser, an elderly embracer with cane so stiff
Walking, clawing for one final breath to know one joy
Your eyes, those haunting blue eyes
And mocking blond hair that belonged to a child so fair
I glance away from my dream, and you sigh, or so it seems
Woven promises and words that meet the mirror so true.
Your eyes. Those sundown-envied dark, blue eyes
And blond hair that rivals the air.
My words are dead
My books are all read
My heart runs so blue
Ahh, your eyes, those cheribum eyes
And lips perfectly-fair
That match your hair
Your cloudy blond hair.
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