My eyes used to be grey.
Who or what breathed life into them,
I do not know,
but it is he that I pine for when my spirits are failing
and my eyes become ashen.
It must be he that my bones ache for
when my body is racked with pains of heartbreak
and my head sways on my neck from the weight of lonliness.
How blue my eyes are, though, in the sunshine,
in the warmth of day
The faint lines of amethyst seem to shine when
illuminated by poetry
and surrounded by good company.