Behind the eyes

is something hard to find.

The doorway to something

beautiful,

dark, or

kind.

It may be lost,

buried deep

beneath the shadows that loom

inside.

It may be light,

weightless and in bloom like

a freshly sprung sprout

on a luminous morning.

Or it could be dainty,

delicate and featherweight,

ready to break

with a touch of anything less

gentle than itself.

 

It's strange, really,

what may lie behind one's eyes.

The doors I used to look through

are now tightly shut,

and I wonder,

Will I ever see the real you

again?