Amateur writer. On the path of the phrase that says "practice makes perfect." Avid consumer of books that make me think, make me feel.
Your eyes are a waterfall
When you cry.
Your eyes are an oasis
When they dry.
But when you look into mine, I see
That your eyes contain a tiny village.
It has a bakery whose warmth reminds me
Of the reason I fell for you, and a small park
Whose greenness makes me feel so connected
To nature, at home, like an astronaut
Who has finally landed on the moon.
There are also deserted alleys and
Streets whose darkness reflect the way I feel
When you are away, or when I am afraid
That I am not deserving enough to have you.
But mostly, love, the village in your eyes
Hosts hundreds of people whose actions and
Characters display the ups and downs,
The enchantment and the disillusionment
Of you and me.
But, love, if your eyes contain such multitudes,
Then your face, your arms, legs and body
Must contain worlds, galaxies, or a universe.
But maybe I am too small to pertain
To such grandeur. So, for now, darling,
All I see is that
Your eyes contain a village.
© 2017 H Bakerley