She doesn't talk much, just... Sits there.
Momentary confusion and contemplation
War on her complexion.
But her face, it's invisible. She's hooded,
Intriguing, I've never understood it.
Why, one must cover their minds,
In order to find
Some place go contemplate in.
Or comprehend, perhaps,
The mysteries the crooked street envelops.
Along the path she walks home,
Her hood, drawn till her nose.
Her hands are in plain sight,
So are her feet.
The fidgety stillness about her, a sheath.
In which she conceals some weapon,
Her face, clothed in mysterious grace.
And Also, for some reason, a hood.
Perhaps she noticed where my eyes were.
Perhaps she was unaware.
She continued her silent presence.
She stood up rather languidly,
Walked away without a second glance.
I fell in line, my lip abound with questions,
But the hood did its work,
Speech remained as an intention.
In summer, I wondered out loud
"A hood ?? Wouldn't that be suffocating in this heat ?!"
But I knew. She wore the hood so she could breathe.
YOU ARE READING
At The Corner Of My Eye
PoetryMore poetry involving myself, my friends, my anime and my incredible addiction to the aforementioned 2. A few rants. My second compilation. To everyone who viewed voted and commented on my first work, A Left Brain, a MASSIVE HERCULEAN THANK YOU...
