wrapped up in the magnificent allure of the eye

growing up,
s/he had been told that
“the eyes were the windows to the soul” &
as quickly as these things inevitably happen,
s/he decided for her/himself that this “soul” thing
was strictly a matter of imagination,
knowing full well that one had about as much of a chance in attaining such a thing
as one did throwing up fists full of sand into the mouth
when having thought only a moment ago,
the oasis was in fact a pool of clear light-greenish blue aqua---
then sitting in the corner of a quiet library,
one closes their eyes after reading bataille &
attempts the way to illustrate the artistry
the aurora borealis
the reflecting of moon beams &
the mirror-imagining of all vastly interesting shades of light
found in the iris of another
trouve dans la taille d'un autre grand les yeux,
how such wonder is harder to describe for those that don’t attribute everything to a
dreamt up imaginary friend---
for her/him,
even drawing the eyes of the one whose face they cannot free from their mind,
does not calm or bring comfort in the least &
the nonbeliever wants desperately to sum up what it is
that pulls them in,
what this other human being has within what seems like a purely
aesthetic
manifestation---
after all, they are only eyes, no?

with poetry, whipped up words,
one tries to bring their feelings to the surface
with song, with melody, with instruments & electronic embellishments,
one tries to impress, one tries to bring forth the wonder that another has
provoked within them,
certainly with paints, with the visual arts, with everything from great conversation to
a walk in the park
one takes the journey even further
still trying to come to terms with how they became so very
wrapped up in the magnificent allure of another’s
eyes.

and we cannot look away
and we cannot look away
and we cannot look away.