Do Dravite Eyes Truly See?

I’ve never before seen a savage—
not the true eloquent sort,
who looks like he walked out of highland glens
that wear brume like vestal veils,
hazy gauze that lifts and falls only slightly
when wind mavens laugh breezing by.
No, wildlings like you died off fantastical eons—
though only truly some centuries—ago.
But stubborn, on some strange, heroic mission,
you walked forward in time, a dreamer and soothsayer
of etiquettes long past. You brushed aside with singing hack
the cloying growth of modernism
and planted yourself like a stately redwood before me.

Do dravite eyes truly see?
Sometimes, I think not.
For if they saw as all others do,
they would have been impressed by the armor I wear.
Instead, dim fires lurk within those eyes, they spark,
lighting, kindling a glorious blaze inside me.
And how is it that pellucid divinations of my soul’s requirements
find their way across the quiet spaces that divide us?
“Fine particulates,” you say,
“that rather tie us together.”

You wore your heart in those same brown tourmaline eyes,
and in doing so, you rent open with the lightest of touches
an animus that stood stolid sentinel, bristling,
a weary soul perched on the tallest of walls…
Daintily, fearfully I dismount, awaiting the return
of the strength I now find only in your arms.

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