Our Eyes

The words flow

freely
but no one is there --
no home to the stories
whispered,
shouted
from the masses
of lonely souls.

Dark caverns of
the mind conceal
the pain of morning light
as they cling
to sticky, sweet
comforts from ignorance.

It spreads like novocaine or
the caress of honey, which
is cloying and constant,
safely
slipping from their lips --
from mother, from father
the diatribes make their rounds
again, 

again, 

again,
as an untrained broken record...

But where are their eyes?

The question jerks me
awake
as another paling
horizon illuminates
the dear, soft
purity
of lies flowing from
our tainted chalice of life.

The triviality is intoxicating.

And still
I can't see their eyes...

I wonder
how far I can hear
the drumming behind
the window of each soul?

I hear it, faintly --
but it radiates beyond me,
as I sigh among my absolution,
safe,
slipping, 

thinking,
a blue sheep wading in a sea
of black and white,
gasping,
seeking a false sense
of direction towards the
One Truth
that isn't there.

I fear it --
the plaguing question,
conspicuous, yet
the taste of it is
bitter on my smile.
And I frown
knowing the crowds
in their beautiful blindness
may never stop
and ask it:

Where are our eyes?