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In the sea of her blue eyes

On the door of her heart I found a mat full of mud, a path well trodden and boundaries long broken, but my shoes carried not much mud, and my legs had not walked long, so I took it upon myself, to bring salvation upon her soul. I wiped her mat with tears from my eyes and I drew out the poison, cleaned her wounds. I found all the spots, that had been broken and bruised, and I embalmed her fissures and bandaged her soul. I gave her a shoulder, and an ear. I gave her my knees and lent her my all, oh I gave her my heart, with hope that when she finally got well, she would remember my open arms, and she would open hers to me too. Oh I was a fool, to convince myself that I was a hero, to scoop sand into my porous fingers, to grasp at smoke and hang on for my dear life. In a whole field full of trees, I chose to clasp at a single straw. I watched her day and night, till slowly her lips started moving and the long lost beauty found its way home. She gave up her borrowed eyes and started using her own. The flower in her heart grew, nurtured by refuse and leftover love, and her blue eyes gained a new hue. I was proud, when I saw her. A queen had been rose from the dust that suffocated and now stood alive and breathing. I tried to look into the lake that was her eyes, but her blue eyes were not looking into mine. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and I sweated and panted, pulsed with desire and need, and my heart craved for her, but she was never to be mine. I was in the way of the mirror, and I had blocked the door. Oh I wished I had her that day, when she walked out into the rain, to test her wings and her new heart, but I knew she wished not the same. I prayed to find her, but I know she hoped I would get lost in the storm. I know that in the end I shall not be liberated, for this is not my fairytale, and I called the whip upon myself. There is no hero waiting, for me to fall and pick me up, for if I fall, I am on my own. My soul has become a wilderness again, and I have slowly died within myself. I shall never get to love again, for nothing of beauty grows out of parched land, nothing but cacti and hardy thorns. My soul shall never be cultivated and I shall remain barren till the end of the day. On the side I see a bird limp on, into a horizon of vacant hope and I feel pity, for I too am lost, in the sea of

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