rain specked and framed in
white, with
the glimpse of river rushing
and green boughs,
tree stumped,
through it.
the paint p e e l s
and is grimed with dirt,
laced with cobwebs
and small captured insects.
eyes are the window to the soul,
they say,
and yet do we ever see
eyes as ugly as my window,
purpose built
with squarish handle and a lost key?
too old to be new,
too new to be beautiful.
not yours. you eyes are
p e r f e c t.
and yet,
they say the eyes
are the window to the soul.
if my window was an eye,
the soul would be
beautiful.
with the sun glancing now,
fierce in it's last attempts
at daylight, the river catching it's rays
and projecting them almost
as bright, the leaves translucent emerald.
not yours. your soul is
not
perfect.
but then, neither is mine.
Author notes
\
Written June 6th, 2005
A contest entry
- First Round of A Two Round Contest!!! by leadingthelemings.
300 points, ended June 7, 2005, 9 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
-
wonderful imagery. Great thought in this piece, it is thought provoking and i enjoyed how you finished this piece, using some effective repetition...great write, congrats
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