He awakes to her form;
Sleeping so gently
Alas, it is not her;
Her eyes are blue
Not the Auburn,
He knows so well.

The quill welcomes,
His sorrowed soul
Upon weathered parchment,
His lost mind scrawls
The words are merely ink,
Yet scribed in blood
He asks her forgiveness,
But he asks too much

Our lives lead down solitary roads;
Yet, these roads lie so close
How so often then must we just miss
A soul who could share our woes?

You,
with your
blue eyes that pierce through me,
that puncture through my defenses.

You,
with your
razor sharp gaze that slices me to pieces,
that cuts through to my soul.

You,
with your
sidelong glances and furrowed brow,
have captured me
quite thoroughly.

I've learnt that I crave acceptance
So is this poem an epiphany;
Or simply, a cry for attention?