The poets all lied.

Eyes are not the window to the soul.
If that were the case,
All humans would be empaths,
And we'd be free from plague and war.

After all,
It's easy to gaze through the glass.

Eyes,
Are the manuscripts of survival,
And it takes a trained researcher
To decipher the ramblings
And recounts of a life lived in full.

Every glance.
Every dart.
Every blink.
Every tear.

Every eye writes words of trauma,
And histories of realities,
Which one cannot understand
As simply,
As one can stare through the pane.