Their Eyes

Her reflection is rotting in blues
To think she was nothing more than a muse.
And projections of distant memories prove
That such a conclusion lies in such truth
Despite the difference of their iris’ hue:
An endless black hole was perceived at first glance
As she drew nearer, she fell into a trance
Burnt contours were drawn like lines in the sand
Lakshman rekha
Ennodu kshamichaalum
Because she was never fully caught up in his gaze
She kept fond relations with another’s display
That flooded her being with charmed disarray
Tous une charade
Pas destiné à être
Because she kept herself distant and lost clarity
And was lead astray by a grey mist of solidarity
With attention wasted by her naivety
Syllávei to myaló
Prospathoún na xechásoun

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About Robyn

"If you haven't known insanity, you haven't lived."
This entry was posted in Recollecting India, Recollecting Insanity, Recovery (USA) and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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