Her Eyes, The World
In her eyes, the world flutters by,
as butterflies do, no wonder my truth, underlines you.
Trust in mine, the world, in her eyes.
In her eyes, the world wanders by,
as love and life do... no wonder time moves.
No beauty to match her, our Helen of Troy,
entire planets converge, choosing the rapture,
melting from choice, angelic; one hell of a voice,
to tell us: not to sell us developed elegance.
Elements like the fires damaging Earth, who is it after?
Her eyes, we see reality through, her cries,
her tears from the highest salary to,
the tyrants that rape and pillage, forsake the villages.
Pirates, take the booty and find a town for their use.
Militants, ignite the mountains from the clouds with a boom!
The matron of saints, her eyes like patience with paint,
the canvas: the panicked statements she makes.
And yet the world only tries when she's muted,
instead we see the world through the twine of her students.
She's the sage-teacher, the great preacher,
in her prime, she's a muse in the sky where the truth is.
In her eyes...
No freedom to capture, no peace in the past,
only in her eyes do the Gods seem to relax.
And we pray, with simple metaphor, and scripted
with feathers, pour, the images... dress the floor!
The citizens hustle home and give power to pixels;
controlled from a distance, and that's how we depict you.
Antenna alignment, rhetoric could never define it
and yet we designed it, the pessimist's island
where the cynic sits, attempting to find his
mind in a world seen through her excellent eyes.
The benefits of ignorance!
So bank your currency, thank her urgently,
take your turn to see the devastating emergencies.
Currently in progress, for these objects,
that we obsess over I bet she would not stress.
And manifest purity from her certainty.
As naked as the deepest space, she creates perfectly.
In her eyes...
She calls it a sling blade, she calls it a think tank.
She calls it exhaustion from caution and lost in the office
and thoughtless results from the hospice of calmness upon us.
Lost in the swamp is the cause
of the fallen impoverished and caught in the claws
of the sovereign, who resolve to dissolve it.
She calls it the longest repulsive obnoxious concoction of nonsense,
and locks all the profit in coffins...
In her eyes it's true and clear.
And yet every minute of everyday, she's a souvenir.
What's the difference now, for ransom or paychecks,
violence and domination, she answers to slave-sex.
Our Helen of Troy...
Look deeper, through the rhyme, to the sky
through her eyes.
Peace and love.