I wish for the ability to see through eyes of passion
looking inward
where it can be as warm and fragrant as spring
when the air is heavy
and the birds share secrets
not meant for me to know.

And it can be as desolate
as the city's midnight sky
when the clouds seem to sink into heaven's underground.

How beautiful is this?
Granting me the pleasure of the imaginary.
But still I can't keep from wondering...

How beautiful is poetry
when words are pebbles in your shoes?

How beautiful is freedom
when held in the hands of the clock tower?

How beautiful is peace
when it slips your grasp like the streams' fish?

The answer lies in how we allow our eyes to see,
whether it be our mind, our heart, or our soul.

The hard part is knowing the difference.