Of things eyes brighten over.
but comes daylight with a drag
less tug, more escorting.
easy walk from smiles,
to less crooked lips
straight to the point,
rushed goodbyes
and kissed sores.
I'm in no hurry
for bitterness.
For dried salt streamed
like tribal marks,
buried into my cheeks.
these eyes are marble
and flint and opal.
with no last words,
only better hopes.
Arielle John copyright © 2010
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