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Andrew Layman Mar 2020
Restless are the eyes that follow
searching out a purpose,
some nameless claim,
so warm, tepid,
and full of oceanic wonder;
those following two---
those damp spheres of shade.

Regrettably, a thought arrives---
I did not request your name,
lovely living statue,
found of selective voice.

Mark my posture
as a ship listing on the waves,
turn back to port,
turn back to safety,
return to the familiar
these things I know.

Pulse cease,
disquiet chamber
place hold and become stagnant,
meaning and reason please return;
human folly was born of myself,
and remains nameless,
such as my captive audience.

Such bindings of flesh and form,
build me to agony,
and remain a prisoner of chemistry
this creature, this mystery,
this name---
was never offered to me in kind.

I suppose---
there are things best kept hidden,
not spoken loud
as the heart manages its uttering
I walk down the hallway,
perceiving your gaze at journey's end.

Slowly still,
my footsteps fall in procession
and knowing not at all,
when the day concludes
such thinking is above my own
and I am left to wonder
if such a goddess was ever meant
to have earthly title.
EYES (I HAVE NOT SEE THE LIKE) Copyright © 2020
Andrew Layman
All Rights Reserved.
storm siren Jul 2018
I was the crashing waves,
I was the rip tide,
I was the storm--
The ebb and flow only ever tamed
By the moonlight in his eyes.

But you

You were predictable,
The way you moved so lyrical.
You were both the tree sprout,
And the atomic bomb
That ripped its' roots out.

I was the crash of water into flesh.
I could heal, I could bruise;
Either way, the feeling was always fresh.
There is no soul I won't one day possess,
There is no dream I can't hinder the progress.
Toy with me,
And the oxygen in your lungs will be suppressed,
But, hell, nevertheless...

You are land,
You are plants.
You hold still
Your instability.
But in this/ your insanity
You have no deniability.
You did this to me,
You must finally
Hold some accountability.

Tectonic plates shift
And tear
They rip
Year after year.

What comes from the sea
Can always return to the sea.

The end of you,
The end of me.

My waters will swallow you whole.
I am an ocean, and you are a tree. In that, you'll get torn down, shredded into newspaper. I'll consume all that was left of humanity. Eh. Good deal.
Enola Cabrera May 2016
Vicious black rage enveloped his eyes
Electric hate cycled through him
Naturally he resorted to the action he knew best
Graphically and meticulously he planned his revenge  
Enhancing his weaknesses into strengths
Forward he went, ready for bloodshed
Undoubtedly he went for is first five on the list  
Letting his cold vexation take over


— The End —