eyes

These are the eyes I promised to the sun, who sought sight-to cry, when you see the winds tell me do they dream about the seasons and what colour eyes are those of winter?. My old friend can draw the moon from memory but not me, there is my face all aflame on a sketchbook. You rode tigers, I took their camouflage to hide from danger, Whose heart was like church bells ?-only revealed at certain times, conveyed once in a painting of me against night skies, a comet almost passing through silver ear-rings. Bells sang for medals hung on returning troops and one silent king with a bald sovereign containing faded faces worn down in clenched fists and winter's eye held in death's bellybutton yearning to look into those of the sun. I did cross the moon's palm with silver hoping he would pass to haul unfading memories that are always out of season we shared a common dream of being in a desert encased in ice facing each other, unsure of identity, between us one man bell-ringing, cathedral razed to the ground where you lost your vision.