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.