I would have thought her eyes chips of ice
were they naught so green a hue.
Instead I am sure a snow clad Spruce will suffice,
for their color must include some form of ice.
But could a Spruce survive the cruel ravage of those
winter eyes? Those eyes that never melt into tears.
Whose black depths remind me of vultures on the wing.
If through a looking glass I espy and I spy then through
her eyes the nocturne arcanum of a punished soul.
Would I deem her lost a child of pandemonium or
might I see a lullaby in a raven flocked sky.
Does hope yet flutter in distant dismal night?
No, not for I. Her carriage awaits and I the footman
exist only in anguish for having dared to delve her eyes.