This routine of dry empty words
Parches the lips with lies.
The eyes are more honest, glistening with freshness -
Freshness of tears - balming, soothing the pain.
Like children: laughing, crying, blushing from guilt,
Closed shyly to nakedness,
Open freely to affection.
But the words are otherwise:
All grown up: cynical, lying,
Spiteful of kindness,
Savouring nakedness,
Jesting, anxious and nervous...
Drawn...
The eyes are drawn azure.
Sometimes sapphire...
From the canvas gazing.
Their pleas are shy,
Not asking, like words, but questioning,
Softly flitting with moist eyelashes:
“How could it be so, my dear?”
But only with the eyes...
How could it be so?
© Copyright: Вадим Корх, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114020902354
Свидетельство о публикации №114020902354
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