Come two o’clock, the rain will
pat down the roofs, cleansing
our everydays woken with weighted
hearts. The sun waits until
the clouds form like circling
vultures craving radiant rays.
Your eyes are true.
Those decadent days spent with antiques
and flowers, where windows were bleak
across my room, and we sucked the life
from balloons. Still, this sentimental satellite
orbits around my heart, even through this war.
Take my hand, I won’t lay low here anymore.
Your eyes are new.
So, maybe you have become a statue,
a monumental moment buzzing through
the air, on heighted hilltop. There a sense
of glory and grace so magnificent
to shine for the lucky victims, bold
to eyes. Still, I wish you would break this mold.
Your eyes are stone.
So when we go to bed, we dream like guns,
flopping around like fire arms.
I don’t know when, but a day’s gonna come,
where my ears will hear this silent alarm,
and I’ll know my expectations have been too high
for such a simple, sacred, subtle girl to reply.