By The Wood

I’ve hear it over a million times before,

“Eyes are the windows to the soul.”

Mine are similar to that of wood,

after lighter fluid has been poured,

before a match would set them on fire.

They were mostly dark,

With the exception of its sparse flecks

Of hidden embers,

Full of questions and desire.

They didn’t know much of anything important,

Except for how much

They craved the light yours brought in.

Your windows opened to a full-blown meadow,

Full of marigolds and tiger lilies.

Light has laid her lips upon your skin

Once or twice before;

But she still lingers by you,

With hopes of showcasing the sunflowers,

And chrysanthemums, and more.

I would lay in that meadow if I could,

But I think Light would get jealous,

Or maybe even mad,

Because she knows what darkness does

To things that belong with her.

I could only imagine

What it would be like to be consumed by you,

And lie in the warm, light grass.

But I know that I shouldn’t;

I would only do damage

To that beautiful, fragile clearing

That holds your beautiful, fragile humanity.

But I must admit that you tempt me.

I’m sure basking in your flaws and perfections

Would be an experience to remember.

But I know that Light would shun me,

And I can’t let that happen again.

So, Instead, I will sit here,

Just out of reach,

And watch her dance with your grandiose soul,

Until I can set my own fire ablaze once more,

And finally join you.

Prompt: Write a poem about a physical feature (i.e., eyes, arms).

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A twenty-two year old who lives through words and her Netflix account. She makes herself laugh more than others, and she claims that she is okay with that.

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