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The Little Things

*pic courtesy from pinterest  The little things the little smile the little flower in the corner aisle the little butterfly catches my eye along with  the hovering bee like sketches drawn in the sky look at the little ant fleet just close to my feet the little spider takes a warm seat the little girl who hops on the broken tile while her mother looks right across  the street from a mile I wave at her she waves back the little gestures the little fingers the little spider continues to linger the little heartbeats as humming treats while I pick up the little crumbs from my bread last night
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Eyes Unsaid

Those eyes stood unsaid.
Awfully misread.
Tactfully unfed.
Besides when they got wet.
I couldn’t say a word to let.
Them never to look at me.
Like before.
Those eyes were unheard.
Sometimes absurd.
Remorsefully bred.
Besides when they fought the fire.
I couldn’t just let out my desire.
To fall back in them.
Like before.
Those eyes were never the same.
As stories, they told.
Were often cold and brutal.
And as a ritual they foretold..
The yearnings were young and old.
Words just outspoke them.
Not to be blamed.
As they came out to be bold.
When closed they chose.
Not to oppose.
The dream of wanderers.
That paid homage to the cold.
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