Heart Poem by William Baez

You are the betterment of my worst self.
When the prisoner is closed in on himself.
When he opens his eyes and stares into the night,
it is you who whispers 'close them.'

And he shuts immediately, not the night.
But his burnt out streetlights, the endless moonlight, and matte alleyways reminiscent of his darkest days.

Yet he's urged to open them again.
His eyes, brilliantly they rise from his evening graves.
For they must.
They rise to meet her sunny hands, her bright face, her brilliant body.
And her stream light heart.