The Boy, His Windows, and They Have Come to Realize

I'm not really sure how to describe this. It's the first in a series of poems about The Boy. I don't know who The Boy is, he's purely fictional.

His eyes were pale,

Bright, full of ignorance

And wonder. Seen from

Behind a veil as if he were

Shielding himself from Horror.

A further glance showed his eyes

Large and full of knowledge,

Nearly fearful of what they've

Witnessed.

 

Such knowledge in those innocently,

Curious eyes.

 

His shapely, red lips rarely moved

Not as if they did not know what words

To form, but

It was merely simpler

To keep them pressed together

For the have too much to utter.

 

He was rather tall,

Preventing him from remaining hidden.

His age was hard to guess,

Too innocent in appearence

To be an experienced man

But too sly and knowledgeable

To be considered a boy

 

He sits,

Observing, absorbing

His surroundings.

Feeding his eyes

Of wonder,

And left to contemplate the Horror

 

Brows furrowed,

Scruntinzing all, this man

This enigmatic boy

Sits alone

Noticing all that we neglect

Concentrating on what we

Fear to think of.

 

He sits alone,

Blank-faced,

Disconnected

Waiting for motionless time

To spring forward.

 

He sits

Moving forward

While the world sits still.

 

Author's Note

Don't be afraid to be honest. If you think it's the worst thing you've ever read, that's great, your opinion is warmly welcomed but please tell me WHY. Thank you.