My eyes are not my windows;
where leaning my gazes be,
they're no lenses to the outer
where the living never sees;
for they've layers--blue
the image I forsee,
concluding to presumptions
of fair-percieving deeds;
presumptuous of kind,
assumptions to say,
I've acknowledged only
delusions to stay;
no candles at glow
for visions explained
when false hope, false guess,
intentions--unnamed;
quite certain of my eyes
have unclosed bearing shame;
what window do I have
or doors I could sway;
what free eyes shall I be
to misjudge no more pain,
maybe just to unsee,
maybe only I forgave;
all those difference I've seen
like the difference I regret,
in this harmony of words
I dare be blind instead;
for my mind opened pages
of daydreaming's infinity,
as I unlearned and returned
sole my truth to poetry.
