Behind Eyes of Glass

Stained, glassy windows to my soul,

Cast downward and through mist,

Blankly tracing veins,

To loosely folded fingers,

Fallen from a prayer’s pose.

This stolid gaze bears false witness,

To the whirl and strike,

That carves out recurring canyons,

Of silken stone pages in my mind,

Velvety pledges indelibly stamped,

Call it guileless silence,

A stubborn lover’s tacit plans,

Delicate, yet definite–molten iron brands,

Gently pressed onto lotus leaves,

Subliminally swung like anvils,

At the end of tai chi sleeves.

Not far behind these millpond eyes,

I etch endless love letters,

Far too male to be cursive in character,

Nevertheless, psalters with ends curling,

To abut rivers of script,

Roaming to still more rivers,

Each one touching,

Raging, rolling, rushing,

To a stop,

Damned up by a mouth razor-wired shut.

As rivers of prose pass and deposit sentiment,

My spirit man sits static amidst,

Mounds of manic missives,

Trying not to be the first to mention missing you,

Staring blankly gaping holes through untold notes,

That lay just a few sullen serifs short of frantic,

Stingingly sweet, tormented words,

That urge his lips to call my eyes liars,

Their silence, much more a desperate plea,

When read an octave higher.

They do adeptly mask the uproar in my soul,

Glazed, glossing over the satin fire that I feel,

The flowing river, the lava flood—rich ink spilled,

Racing to the carrel’s edge—unannounced,

Fleeing from the stroke of a sightless scribe’s phelt,

Wildly miming scenes somewhat near lust,

At the rear of a lens,

What colors this time spent without you,

Something else,

Intended words behind eyes that,

Will not betray them,

Love letters, blindly written on mental vellum.