Stone Of My Eye

July 2, 2015

I asked you to play toy-soldier, as you lingered in the doorway.

Your hands clenched, while your blue-eyed stones grew colder.

The ruffle of my hair and the booming of the wooden door,

Told me it was time to weep, but I only cried once asleep.

At eighteen I hit a wall, driving forty miles and hour.

Ended up in a dress and on a silk white bed.

Sweet water filled my throat, turning sour in my belly.

You had strutted through the doorway, blue-eyes cold as ever.

The sores on my tongue kept me quiet.

I will never be like you.

The sky wept over your mound, when we buried you in Boulder.

Tongue and eye remained silent as the chiseler etched in stone.

I slammed the door in turn, as we drove away on home.

And my blue-eyes, they turned to stone.

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