Whose are these dark eyes that stare diamond-like from behind dark wings?
That carry the shadow of a small boy that loathes his own vessel.
The shame of not being the same.
The shallow stoney grave scratched in the path by fear.
I will wipe the lipstick from the child’s face
and hold you in the excellence of my heart
I will throw witchcraft at your smokescreens
and gold your beauty
and will tenderly touch your cheek
with the back of god’s hand
I love you in this instant of a stolen moment
For love values the other
as it values its self
© 2017 Martin H Wilde