And then you look out the window with the silent patches of green that dorn around and a metaphor of longing muted into poetry
..Your eyes are poetry, then
. where they roam around those bookstores of desired unread books and small shanties of tea shops, where simple stories nest the woman that stood just there in the platform no. eight redolence in those eyes you can never let go where you walked through lands, that lie isolated to you now blue and white and ash colored dress that you once laid your eyes on never wore
and that poem in your eyes that you want to paint in words but cannot.
and then birds of horizon fly into the sky the rains platters sound on the sill while, you know,
in the silence of your soul dwells the poetry of your eyes and in the unsaid are the words
and, that you have lived the longings the poetry unwritten, was you always...