Your Eyes

Your eyes tell a story, if only I could read,
Of summer fun and winter nights, of love and miseries.
Your eyes grow a garden, if only I could go,
With winding paths and waterfalls, with rose and white daisies.
Your eyes have a map, if only I had a compass,
Through treasure troves and ancient ruins, through rivers and great seas.
Your eyes paint a picture, if only I could see,
The swirls of paint and brush strokes, the colors and techniques.
Your eyes consume my heart, you only have to try,
To read to me and carry me, to guide and show me please.

Torn

In the face of the ideal impersonator, words are echos.
Sleeping pictures and scenes all alike, in a million frozen fragments.
Through the scarred palms of the leviathan, slips chaff that was once sweet breath.
A millennium passes every day, a legion of miles each step.
Mind and tears of ice evolve, to a grain of time boxed for the future.
It cowers silently in the distance, not daring to move the air.