I don't know if you see it.
The beautiful iris that I see.
It's like the world's greatest art project...
But it's only there for me.
Stormy blue, steely gray, a hint of brown and green...
It's like a whirlwind that sweeps through that socket,
But only if you look closely would you have seen.
She's an abyss,
I'm a book,
I'm trying to find and catalogue her depths,
But I can't.
Because she's not writing.
Nor words, phrases or sounds.
She's much more than that.
She's knowledge, diction and mannerisms.
She's more than her voice,
Because she can change the world with a paper and pen,
But any woman's beauty,
Comes not from looks and words.
It's what comes from the combination,
Melded mind, body, and soul.
I realized then I admired her so,
But loved her even more.
In a way,
She's more than I could ask for.
In fact I ask not for her, nor her hand, but her mind.
Because the thinking that goes on in there is special,
Surrounded by blazing hair, she's got a cool head.
But as much as I'd sing praises to why she's amazing and beautiful in every way...
I will not today.
Because she may be a beauty,
But her story is hidden in those eyes. I can stare into their stormy color for hours and know nothing,
But still, I do know one thing.
That she's an abyss, but a person too,
But I'm also scared of one thing.
If she's an abyss, and I'm a book, perhaps into her I should not look.
Because when you gaze into the abyss, it gazes back, and I wonder if I really am the book...