She smiles in her passive aggressive accusation I am guilty of a roaming eye Observant, I am a servant Locked in a struggle with beauty Allowing me to see but never feel My inner artist is real
A vessel for images and forms visions that perform for me A daily dance of chance, I am in my writers trance Breathing and creating beauty
Words are my window Seeking warmth in the cold A passage to a soul Not barter nor sold
And so I smile, a shy eye I reach and hold her hand I tell her...
You words flow from your pen in a nonchalant manner with great diction throughout each stanza Simple, direct, and truly heartfelt, with the resonance of intimacy seen through the roaming eye of a romantic poet.
The truth is, our eyes always roam no matter what. Biological slaves we are I think. It doesn't excuse anything and I think you capture that pesky conscientiousness rather well here. Love the rhythm, rhyme and flow.