Without readers eyes,
poetry would be dormant,
drifting in field of page.
Readied for the sun
rays of brown
blue, amber or grey
to anchor in vellum sky.

Without your eyes
moments would
echo absent of clarity.
Poetic painter
would long for exposure
in museum of minds

Regardless pen moves on
trained to release
a road for one to follow.
The reader who carries
the sacred sun of eyes.