Who was it that first said,
the eyes are the window to the soul..
who's eyes did they envision..
and how did they know?
And what of sweet wetted fingers that comb..
to straighten this messed heart cowlick I own.
Few well paired wanderlust seek a divine pardon..
still fancy the folly of youth's far flung travels.
To trespass meadow lost to petal lined garden..
'til intimacy's last mystery unravels.
Darting dawn awakes to write upon love's torn page.,
a parting drawn in true type font in spite of heart's age.