Through My Eyes

My strength though faint and confined fills my grieving heart with elements of remorse and humble dismay. Pawning my guilt onto grieving parents and bloodying my hands on soil that's seen famine, and of soldiers marching past, their shields upraised against the burning sun.

I've seen widowed mothers in black cloth standing without shelter or water; tormenting themselves further by masquerading their thoughts and singing gently through lips that are black with sores.

Mocking the breasts of every woman and swearing to scorn their adulterous ways I entered into poverty with a sence of belonging. Belonging to oneself.

PART 2

The futility of war is something man strives for

Man was blessed with a naked body and cursed with a instinct for survival.

Though my eyes stay open to weep and wander as a breath from another world

Though romance is a game and fortune is to live, while vice is but a show of restless beauty

Your guilding love grows with the pain of a singing minstrel

Life is a unsigned contract to a gentleman's agreement between who you are and who you become

My life is a staircase of sadness but life is a moment that lets the thoughts within you

close so that eyes remember the grandious of make-believe that you are in love

Primitive mind, when released with too much power while advancing mankind in certain aspects remains to be seen whether it accomplishes a justifiable end to that on man's advantage

Our chains are stacked loosely to a destiny that is one-sided and ill-forgotten

I am protected from all that I would grasp. I feel that my life is but a probation of my thoughts and of my death. How can my wife who concerns herself only with her blindness be allowed to sacrifice my desires and wants. Everything has to be me.

Poison Ivy has grown and castrated our vessels, touching the embers as they burn. My love is consumed with sacred ecstasy. We are both allies, standing at each end of a darkened room. I stand and look at my reflection. Moving forward I place my hand close to her cheek. I long for somebody to kiss me, my wife I feel is conceited. She would rather bed my brother. I find it hard to contemplate. I would be pleased if it came about but when one gambles, one can expect to forfeit one's friends. As payment for trying to be nice, my hand finishes touching her cheek. The paint is still rough behind the glass, for behind the glass my wife remains, a woman who will never marry or stain the bed with thoughts of envy, for she has lived her life and now she will live mine.