Only my eyes Have ever seen the tears you've cried Out from pupils that were blacker Than the soul you carry low in your arms. Beauty has been wasted On canvases too thickened by mistrust and defeat, On the spiderwebs that caught more that flies, On the vines within the forest That grow more than thorns. I love where wilted gardens have yet to be watered, Where fuel has yet to start The engine of endearment. I love without looking behind, Without seeing the fading shadows set by the sun In this glowing room, Without the turmoil that soars beyond the moon's frame For a painting drowned in a frown. Slick yourself On the road that possesses no ice On its black surface. Is suffering your only kind of expression, Through roaring sigh, Searing eyes That fold anger over the bent stem To the flower that washes wind by wind. Your wasted beauty In the eyes of guilt and disgrace Will never receive another taste Of something solid, in the ice Of the frozen droplets that descend from your eyes, As you reopen yourself to the moon, as it cries Waves to meet you on the roads, Tides to carry you into the gray scenery.