Those eyes of his are eyes I’ve seen before;
His face so soft and careful like his heart;
His words so fixed I read them like a cure;
Such wisdom there that’s waiting to impart.
The smallest ears can listen like they’re grand;
The finest skin may glisten with life’s dew;
As words be writ and edited by hand;
So words be raw, uncooked, yet overdue.
A meeting met, where fleeting feet be put;
A life that cycles over and again;
And from two corners, instinct, and a trust:
If words be books then hearts be Mice and Men.
Dear reader, read this poetry tonight;
While poets, of their passion must they write.