Virgin Eyes

My mind is dissecting itself; it slowly and painfully bursts into spectrums of unwanted hope

Tears burn down my face, soaking the lining of my body against the floor

I’m looking at wood and pretending it bursts a pattern that’s fitting to my eyes

It’s ironic; I find myself trapped in deceiving peace while parts of my body burn

My eyes move and meet hers; it’s just a caricature

Her eyes are too good, too humble; they don’t match the crown a white man insisted on putting on her head

Something about her eyes calm mine; they have a soul of their own- they do good

She knows what I did, but she carries each of my mistakes in her heart

She told me that in some way she loves them; for they make me who I am, they make me her child

There is something about her eyes that draws me in; their imperfectness reminds me of my own

They invite me to a conversation with silence, with prayers

The gold that surrounds her face is unnecessary- it’s for our ego’s eyes to see- for her eyes talk to our hearts

Those eyes, they mother, they nurture, they convert

I see a sparkle that grounds those eyes to the paradise where they were created

For a moment, she shares glimpses of that paradise with me and my sinful eyes

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